


Yours

by Anderseeds



Series: Hellsing works [14]
Category: Hellsing
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Millennium, Biting, Blood Drinking, Catholic Guilt, Enemies to Lovers, First Time Blow Jobs, Forced Cooperation, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Possessive Behavior, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-14
Updated: 2020-11-14
Packaged: 2021-03-09 18:07:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 24,269
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27560485
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anderseeds/pseuds/Anderseeds
Summary: His eyes never strayed from Anderson. He didn’t so much as blink. While Alucard's face was absent of expression, there was something still present in his eyes. Something malevolent in the ethereal glow of his irises, something primeval, and Anderson’s nerves prickled with the thought of what exactly was left once everything that made AlucardAlucardwas taken away.Alucard and Anderson have an extremely bad month, courtesy of an Iscariot defector, and somehow being in each others company manages to be the best part of it.
Relationships: Alucard/Alexander Anderson
Series: Hellsing works [14]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1622206
Comments: 7
Kudos: 70





	Yours

**Author's Note:**

  * For [catsvrsdogscatswin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/catsvrsdogscatswin/gifts).



> This is my side of the trade with Catsvrsdogscatswin! They wrote me the wonderful [Biting the Bullet](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26866660/chapters/65551930), which I highly recommend any Andercard fan to read! 
> 
> Boy this fic took a long time to write, and I had writers block half the time I was working on it, but I finally managed to get it done and I'm so pleased! It's the second longest fic I've written for these two, and will bring the amount of fic I've produced for Hellsing over the 100k mark. It's a lot for me, so I'm pretty thrilled about that productivity! 
> 
> Hope you all enjoy my efforts!

A clash was inevitable when Iscariot and Hellsing occupied the same space, and that was especially applicable to their trump cards, who battled so often that they’d had to expand their battlefield beyond the physical. Their orders, environment and time restraints meant they often couldn’t exchange more than a few snide remarks during encounters, so verbal exchanges had become the more common form of conflict. Sometimes, if they felt any inclination to spare the time, they would exchange verbal blows during battle as well, but Anderson could never get out more than a few words while running full tilt across the battlefield and Alucard could only throw out so many pithy one-liners to someone who couldn’t respond.

There were no witty comments coming from Alucard now. He lacked even his customary smile as he came at Anderson, his face as placid as one sleeping with their eyes open. He fought Anderson as doggedly as ever, but with an indifference incongruous with the ferocity behind the blows he was both dealing and taking. Even when Anderson attempted to shock some cognisance back into the man by shouting in his face or slamming bayonets through his head, he gave no response, showed no recognition. 

He had always been more beast than man, but he was now more than ever. The liberal use of Alucard’s hound and thralls made it hard to categorise him as anything else. Anderson struck three of Alucard's thralls in the head and another two in the heart, but it did nothing to chip at Alucard’s supply of bodies, which was so vast that Anderson couldn’t see the Vatican City courtyard through the mass of them. They made it a challenge to maintain proximity to Alucard, who would leap back every so often to let his servants crowd in on Anderson. He was keeping pace with Alucard by the skin of his teeth.

As much as Anderson disliked Alucard, it was evident he wasn’t attacking the Vatican of his own volition. Something was compelling him to do it. Not Integra, he was sure, because the Iron Lady would never be so brash as to launch an attack on the Vatican amid a period of peace. They’d had treaty talks just a few months prior, and Integra had been insistent on there being repercussions for anyone who instigated conflict- repercussions they had all agreed to, government officials included. Someone must have wrested control from her. Nothing Anderson found all that surprising, because foulness always befell those who dabbled in black magic.

Knowing this made little difference. There wasn’t much he could do with the information, and it didn’t change his objective of subduing Alucard; just had him punctuate it with attempts to break through Alucard’s stupor. He wasn't having much luck with either objective. The sheer mass of Alucard’s army meant Alucard was making steady progress toward his destination, and no amount of yelling or attacking had slowed his advance. Anderson’s soldiers were dying. Some overwhelmed, others using their death to kill masses of thralls through explosives. All their efforts were ineffectual. There weren’t enough of them to repel Alucard’s forces and it’d be at least thirty minutes before the Papal Knights arrived to provide backup. By that point, it would be too late.

He sent one of Alucard’s thralls to its knees long enough to use it as a footstool, leaping into the air just high enough to be engulfed in scripture without catching extra bodies in it. There was a split second of warmth and a bright, blinding light before he was deposited over Alucard, who he attempted to slam into with his bayonets. Alucard was prepared. He caught Anderson by the ankle with a thick tendril, and it was such a strange thing, like a flame made of oil, but it didn’t leave any residue on him when it flung him into the concrete.

Anderson shouted as his shoulder and back jarred into the ground. Bone scraped against bone, ligaments tore, blood vessels burst, and everything healed as Anderson fumbled his way back to his feet. Alucard didn’t give him any time to initiate another attack. He lashed out with the shadows again and Anderson had to leap and roll in order to avoid them.

A fissure was left where the tendril had struck and Anderson gave it a wary look before hurtling a barrage of bayonets at Alucard, who slid smoothly out of their trajectory. His eyes never strayed from Anderson. He didn’t so much as blink. While Alucard's face was absent of expression, there was something still present in his eyes. Something malevolent in the ethereal glow of his irises, something primeval, and Anderson’s nerves prickled with the thought of what exactly was left once everything that made Alucard _Alucard_ was taken away.

Anderson continued to move to avoid retaliation, leaping and rolling and running. He didn’t often sweat during battle, but he was so slick with it now that he could feel his nape, back and legs were damp. This battle demanded an exertion that had never been required of him before. He’d been repelling the man for at least an hour, and he’d spent every minute of it moving, toeing his limits. His standard battles with Alucard were never this strenuous even when they did draw a sweat. His body was on fire. His eyes were stinging. His lungs ached, and when he swallowed, his tongue felt thick and heavy in his dry mouth. Alucard probably would have made a wry comment about Anderson looking tired had he been cognisant.

He didn’t let the overexertion slow him down. He’d been taught to push himself beyond his limits, and he’d be able to sustain this for hours if he needed to. Or he would have, had Alucard not managed to get a hold of him again and throw him into the cement hard enough to stun him. While he was laying winded in the crater created by his body, he faintly heard Alucard pushing past the remaining Vatican forces and surging into the Vatican stronghold. By the time he’d managed to rise and pursue his opponent, Alucard was deep within the bowels of the Vatican. He turned upon Anderson’s arrival, and there were cloth-wrapped objects clutched between his fingers. Despite the barrier of the cloth and his gloves, steam rose from Alucard's hands in long, grey wisps. He didn’t seem troubled by or even aware of any pain.

The empty cases for the holy relics kept in Vatican City were the next thing to catch Anderson’s eye. He’d grabbed all of them; the Holy Shroud of Turin, the Lance of Longinus, the Iron Crown of Lombardy, Jesus’ robe, the True Cross- everything except the Nail of Helena, which was still being researched by Matthias. Anderson didn’t care to consider to what end they were being taken. He just needed to take them _back_.

“Alexander Anderson.”

His gaze leapt away from Alucard at being addressed, falling upon a tall man with salt and pepper hair. He wore a cassock, but he was smiling, and Anderson thought him too at ease to be part of the Vatican staff.

“I am Father Geremia,” said the man, stepping close enough for Anderson to get a good look at his narrow features. Neither his face nor name held any familiarity. “I heard a lot about you from my peers at Iscariot, but we never did get the opportunity to meet.”

Heard. A _former_ adherent of Iscariot, and he couldn’t have been a field worker if Anderson didn’t recognise him. Perhaps someone in intelligence, since Anderson received all his information through his handlers.

He glanced at Alucard, who hadn’t moved despite Geremia’s approach. That was the question of who was controlling Alucard answered.

“Ideological differences?” he asked, narrowing his eyes.

Geremia’s smile took on a sharp quality. “I would think the state of your vampire was answer enough.”

“ _My_ vampire?”

“Is ‘your nemesis’ more palatable? Don’t you pretend you don’t think of Hellsing in those terms.” Geremia wandered closer, extending a hand. Alucard turned toward him as though a marionette on strings. “That’s the problem with you Iscariot’s: you enjoy your work too much and you make it too personal. You’re supposed to be little more than living weapons- you especially, Anderson, but you let yourself have human fancies, get yourself invested in silly little rivalries.”

Anderson snarled and flung bayonets for the man’s impertinent mouth, only to have Alucard’s shadows catch the blades. Geremia’s lips stretched, unveiling a slither of teeth.

“They should be keeping you in a room like the abomination you are,” he said smoothly. Anderson struck out again when Geremia was handed the cloth-encased relics, but had his efforts halted by Alucard slamming into him. They both went rolling across the floor, a scrabble of hands and fists and shadows and neither of them seemed able to pin the other down for long.

“When I’m done,” Geremia continued, watching impassively as he and Alucard fought across the room. “You’ll no longer be here, and nor will he. You’re both blights on this world.” His eyes followed the fight with all the casual interest of someone watching a street performer. “You, him, the church, Hellsing, the vampires- they _all_ need to go for this world to achieve some modicum of peace. You're all an affront to God.”

Anderson attempted to respond, but he was silenced by sharp, almond-shaped nails digging into his throat, crushing and tearing the soft tissue of his vocal cords. All he managed to get out was a snarl, and the pressure on his throat made it barely audible.

“You’ve deceived yourself into thinking yourselves God's messengers and soldiers, but you and the church are just as destructive a force as the vampires- maybe even more so, because the vampires don't claim to be better than they are,” said Geremia with distaste. Anderson dearly wanted to slam a bayonet so far down his throat that he would feel it in his bowels. “I’ll liberate the world from your tyranny first, and then I’ll do what your respective organisations have failed to- I’ll deal with the vampire threat.”

Geremia’s footsteps started to retreat. Anderson smacked his head hard into Alucard’s chin and tore his fingers into the man’s chest and shoved his knees into Alucard's midsection, but it wasn’t enough to free himself. Every time he managed to dislodge from the man, Alucard would just leap upon him again and slam him back down.

For one brief, hopeful moment, he managed to withdraw his bible and start calling upon the scripture to send him to his target- but that, too, was stopped by Alucard, who tore the bible from his grip and tossed it aside.

“It’ll be beautiful, poetic justice to defeat you with the holy relics, to enact the _real_ will of God,” Geremia crowed with a smile. “I look forward to seeing you two again, and for the last time.” His voice and footsteps grew fainter. Anderson barely managed to dislodge from Alucard long enough to watch him exit the Vatican storage facility through a side door.

He snarled furiously, nostrils flaring, and slammed his fist hard into Alucard’s jaw, watching with pleasure as the man’s head went flying back through the glass of one of the cases. Shards went spilling across the floor, which nicked and sliced at them as they fought their way across the room. Anderson’s combat had devolved to slamming into Alucard with everything he had, doing it over and over in the hope enough damage would prompt him to stop- but it was a futile effort, because the man just kept _coming_ , his repertoire of lives seemingly endless.

And then Alucard fell slack. He fell slack so suddenly that Anderson didn’t cease his attacks until several seconds after the event, and by that time he’d managed to pin Alucard to the floor with a few dozen bayonets. He expected to find Alucard unconscious when he glanced at his face. Instead he was met with wide eyes and gritted teeth, which very evidently had nothing to do with the consecrated silver currently embedded in him.

“Priest,” breathed Alucard. Anderson didn’t linger long enough to hear anything more than that. There was still a chance this ‘Geremia’ was on Vatican premises. 

He snatched his bible from the floor and circled the entire perimeter of Vatican City, shouldering past civilians, Papal Soldiers, and Vatican staff alike. He didn’t manage to find the man, and when he questioned those near the Vatican City exits, none were able to recall a man fitting Geremia’s description. He expected escape had been easy among the chaos. Without so much as a direction to go in, Anderson had to forfeit the chase for now.

To Anderson’s surprise, Alucard was still kneeling in the storage room with bayonets pinning him in place when he returned. He’d only managed to wrench out two of them, and going by his pinched brow, that had been a monumental task. He was currently working on removing a blade lodged in his thigh and calf, yanking it back and forth in a way that would have been viciously painful for any human, even for Anderson, but looked little more than a mild annoyance for Alucard.

Clearly the control Geremia had over Alucard hadn’t ended with his departure.

“What’s wrong with you?” he asked, moving around Alucard in a slow circle, wary of another attack.

Alucard tore the bayonet he was working on free with considerable effort. The wound it left behind was unusually slow to heal, Anderson noticed. He could see the oily threads gathering. Usually the process was so fast he didn’t have time to appreciate how disgusting it was.

“Something that is going to be detrimental for everyone if it isn’t fixed.” He moved to a bayonet in his chest. “How ironic that a former Iscariot would do this.”

Anderson bared his teeth. “What is ‘this’, exactly?”

“Desecrated Vatican City, thieved holy relics, dabbled in dark magic,” said Alucard. “I think you know what kind of dark magic to which I refer.”

Anderson’s eyes dropped to the seals on Alucard’s hands, and Alucard made an affirming sound.

“Hellsing is going to fix this,” Anderson snarled, circling Alucard at a greater pace. “This is _your_ damned mess! That man would have been a trifle to deal with if your foolish organisation hadn’t given him an in by playing around with dark magic and keeping pet vampires!”

“Your organisation should take greater care in keeping tabs on your former members,” said Alucard calmly.

Anderson ground his teeth and said nothing, because Alucard had a point there. Their efforts had to be lacking if Geremia’s hostility toward them had gone unnoticed. He expected intelligence to receive an overhaul once all of this had been resolved. And it _would_ be resolved, because Anderson wouldn’t stop until it was.

When he glanced down at Alucard, the man was still working at the same bayonet, and Anderson was growing frustrated with seeing Alucard in such straits, particularly at the hands of someone who wasn’t him. Pressing a sigh through clenched teeth, Anderson knelt before Alucard and began wrenching out the bayonets himself, tossing them back into his coat.

“Just how weak are you?” he asked, watching with a wrinkled nose as Alucard’s wounds sluggishly knitted shut.

“As weak as I was when I was captured by the Hellsing family,” said Alucard as he slowly rose to his feet. When he stumbled forward, instinct prompted Anderson to leap up and catch him by the shoulders. It was the first he’d ever touched the man in a non-violent manner, and only with extended contact was he able to appreciate how unnaturally cool Alucard was. He didn’t even have the cold of a corpse; it was something beyond that, something that distinguished him from your average vampire. After the display of power Anderson had seen, it would have been amiss to place him anywhere near the category of other vampires.

He had a suspicion about what Alucard was, but there wasn’t any time to examine that just yet.

“I thought your service was voluntary,” he said, turning to place Alucard against one of the shattered cases and sweeping his hands down Alucard’s lapels to neaten him.

“To my current Master, it is,” said Alucard, regarding Anderson curiously.

“How does it work?” he asked as he brushed some glass out of Alucard’s red duster. “The magic binding you to Hellsing.”

“It’s intricate blood magic.”

That was the answer he’d feared. Anderson touched his fingers to his temples. Most dark magic involved blood, flesh and bone to some degree, but the category of blood magic was distinct in how it was approached and what it could offer. Using it to indenture someone to your bloodline wasn’t a common use; in fact, this was the first time Anderson had encountered such a thing outside of very old files. There were less perilous methods of achieving what blood magic could, and that those methods didn’t have the same longevity, degree of control, or strength as blood magic was a small issue for most people. Most people didn’t have to keep a vampire of Alucard’s calibre on a leash, after all.

Anderson had spent so long scouring the Vatican library for some means to kill Alucard that he knew there was nothing on those shelves that would be able to immediately solve this problem. Iscariot knew little to nothing about Alucard, and even less about the kind of seals that bound him. Even being told they were the result of blood magic didn’t elucidate much. He wouldn’t be able to break Geremia’s hold on Alucard through Vatican resources alone. 

He leaned close enough that their breaths would have mingled had Alucard any breath to speak of. “If Integra could deal with this blood magic mess on her own, I imagine she would have already. Iscariot has over a millennia of experience in dealing with dark magic, and Hellsing is going to have to give Iscariot all the information it possesses on what binds you to Integra’s bloodline so we can do what we're best at.”

“That isn’t up to me, Judas Priest,” said Alucard with a wry sort of smile. “But I can make a case for it, provided you’re willing to be cooperative for the duration of this issue.”

“Or,” said Anderson, his voice dropping dangerously. “I could just kill you. You’d be of no threat to anyone then, and dealing with the little wretch that caused all this would be considerably easier with you out of the way.”

Alucard laughed. “You wouldn’t be trying to threaten me into compliance if you intended to try.”

“Try?” He scoffed. “You can barely stand!”

“You saw what I have at my disposal, Alexander Anderson,” said Alucard, tilting his head forward, his smile broadening. “So I repeat: I can make a case for you to have access to Hellsing resources if you agree to be cooperative.” He took a step closer, their noses practically touching. “And before you argue, even if you managed to retrieve those relics before Geremia figured them out, it’s not beyond me to destroy all you hold dear under his direction. Albeit, with great reluctance, as he seems to have already made a play by play how your destruction will go, but it would be _deeply_ unwise not to plan for that possibility.”

Anderson’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t protest. The vampire was right: finding Geremia and the relics was pointless if he could use Alucard as a backup plan. He’d no doubt Geremia had left Alucard here as a threat, knowing full well it was one Iscariot would have to take seriously and allocate resources to.

“I can make a case for our cooperation,” said Alucard again. “And I expect I’ll be a valuable ally when he arms himself with all the relics and appoints himself as a living god, as those sorts are wont to do.”

“Ally!” Anderson scoffed.

“I know you aren’t a fool, Father,” said Alucard smoothly. “You’re up against an arsenal of holy relics, and once you’ve been razed through, Hellsing will be next. The Vatican needs Hellsing’s cooperation, and Hellsing needs the Vatican’s.”

Anderson pursed his lips. He pursed them for several long, tense moments before finally finding the willpower to nod his head. There were few things he found more distasteful than cooperating with Hellsing, but he wasn’t about to put his reservations and pride above the safety of the Vatican. They needed information, and they needed to be able to keep an eye on Alucard, and Integra was the only one who could arrange those things. The relics _and_ Alucard needed to be dealt with to ensure the safety of Vatican City.

Alucard chuckled at his display of impotent anger. “Speaking of my Master, I expect she’s anxiously anticipating my return.”

“When we find her, you’re going to tell her Iscariot is to be involved in every step of this issue,” said Anderson firmly.

“You know the terms of me doing that.”

“I already agree to them,” spat Anderson.

“Yes, but we both know you will benefit from frequent reminders.”

Anderson only offered a grunt in response. Wasting no further time, he curled his hands around Alucard’s shoulders and picked him off the case, dragging him for the exit. Alucard leaned into his side, a strangely cold presence, and when Anderson cast him a side-glance, he saw Alucard’s brow was pinched. He supposed the man wasn’t used to either receiving or needing help. Probably found it demeaning, and Anderson was inclined to agree. He’d even go so far as to say it was demeaning for _both_ of them, because Alucard was his nemesis; the only man who had ever provided him a challenge; his Goliath, and his nemesis needing help felt _wrong_. He would let Alucard take his pound of flesh when the time came, when they inevitably had Geremia at their mercy, but he felt entitled to a pound himself.

They were greeted by a harried looking Maxwell the moment they stepped outside. His eyes were moving at a hummingbird’s pace, flicking from Alucard to Anderson and then back, like he couldn’t quite believe what he was seeing. Maxwell opened his mouth, but he was interrupted by the arrival of Integra before he could speak.

“Report,” she said, her voice terse and breathless and fingers tight around the hilt of a sword attached to her hip. She looked more shaken than Anderson had ever seen her, even more so than when he’d his blades within inches of slicing her asunder.

Alucard extracted himself from Anderson’s side to stand respectfully before Integra. “My seals have been compromised by a former Iscariot, who kindly provided the name ‘Geremia’. They’ve taken off with the relics kept by the Vatican-“ Maxwell gave a little, choked gasp at this. “ And deprived me of the bulk of my strength during their departure.”

“The relics!” Maxwell cried. He tore his fingers into his hair and turned wide eyes on Anderson. “All of them? Did he take all of them, Anderson?”

“All but what is currently in Matthias’ possession,” said Anderson solemnly.

Integra remained tall and steady, but her pale face belied her composure. “You kept them in the _same place_?”

“Of course we did,” said Maxwell, casting Integra a look of affront, one which Anderson matched. “They’re often in display in various chapels for the faithful and otherwise kept in the safety of Vatican storage. And it is safe, usually.” He turned a look of distaste on Alucard. “Only your pet vampire has ever managed to get through its defences, so you have a lot of gall implying our safety measures are substandard!”

“Fine,” was all Integra said to that, though with exceptional dryness, and then she turned to address Alucard again. “If he gave you a name, I imagine he went on a spiel about his intentions. So what are they?”

“The usual, master: our deaths,” said Alucard. “Along with all vampires and Catholicism.”

Integra frowned. “If the relics were capable of that, I don’t see why Iscariot wouldn’t have done it already.” She looked expectantly at Maxwell.

“It’s only with the Popes explicit permission that the relics can be used,” provided Maxwell. “And frankly, even after centuries of research, we aren’t entirely sure of what all of them can do. Using them without knowing the exact result could end in disaster.” A pause, and then, hesitantly: “ _Has_ resulted in disaster in the past, in fact, so His Most Holy isn’t exactly keen on using them for anything but display.”

Anderson resumed pacing. He always found it hard to keep still when anxious and he was hard-pressed to think of a more anxiety inducing situation than this. “The relics aren’t the only thing in his arsenal.” He made a snap of a gesture to Alucard. “We need to dedicate some resources to the vampire or Rome may end up overtaken before the little bastard figures out how to use the relics for his purposes.”

“I gather he isn’t going to be as discerning and cautious as we would be, but that could still be weeks away,” said Maxwell hopefully. "I mean, he wouldn't have left the vampire here as a distraction if he thought he'd be able to get them prepared within days."

“Him planning around that possibility doesn't ensure us time,” said Anderson, which tempered Maxwell’s hope. “He’ll cut down experimentation by several centuries if he just throws them at test subjects until one sticks.” Which was, coincidentally, exactly what had led to the disaster of the past. He’d no doubt this was exactly what Geremia would do to achieve his ends.

He spun to face Integra with a raised finger, which she regarded warily.

“Intelligence needs to focus on tracking down the relics, so I volunteer to deal with Hellsing,” said Anderson. “I’ve already spoken arrangements with the vampire.”

“Spoken arrangements? With Alucard?” said Maxwell incredulously, his eyes once again jumping between Alucard and Anderson. Integra looked similarly incredulous.

“Do we have much choice but to be cooperative?” asked Anderson while eyeing Alucard, who stepped up and offered an affirming incline of his head.

“I believe cooperation with Iscariot would be prudent, at this period,” said Alucard, and it was only now that Anderson noticed that his condition had improved over the course of the conversation. His clothes were neater, glasses and hat back in place, and the slump of his shoulders had eased, making his exhaustion less apparent. That was… reassuring, which was an odd feeling to have about Alucard’s well-being considering how many times he’d tried to kill the man. “Our combined forces would make repelling this man considerably easier, and breaking his hold over my seals won’t happen in a timely manner without them,” continued Alucard, running his tongue along his teeth. “Neither your father nor grandfather dedicated much thought to how the seals would be removed, barring the death of the Hellsing bloodline, so I’d go so far as to say we _need_ their resources.”

Integra narrowed her eyes. “Why would we remove them?”

“The blood magic has been compromised,” said Alucard with an upward flick of his eyebrows. “That isn’t the sort of thing that can simply be fixed, my master. You are aware of this, and _I_ am aware you won’t waste our precious time trying to fix the unfixable.”

Integra let out a huff of a breath through her nose and turned a scrutinising look on Anderson. “Just how cooperative are you planning to be, Father Anderson?”

Anderson’s answer was immediate: “As cooperative as necessary.”

“As cooperative as necessary,” Integra parroted, sounding less than pleased with the phrasing. She stared him down for some time before speaking again. “Very well. But if I’m to let you onto my estate grounds, I have some ground rules.”

“Your estate grounds?” asked Maxwell, practically screeching. “Why the _hell_ should I let you run off with _our_ most powerful member? You must think me a fool.”

“Yes,” said Integra drily. “But I assumed you wouldn’t want Alucard anywhere near the Vatican after-“ She cast her eyes over the bodies littering Vatican City. “Today’s events. Her attention returned to Maxwell. "And even you should be aware anyone less than Anderson wouldn't be sufficient to keep an eye on Alucard."

Maxwell opened his mouth and then closed it, pursing his lips. He regarded Alucard with immense dislike, and perhaps a touch of unease.

“Alright, but.” He hesitated, his brow furrowing. “But in return, we get the butler.”

* * *

Don’t fight with Alucard. Don’t fight with Seras. Don’t leave the library except for meals, sleep, and the bathroom. Don’t leave Alucard’s line of sight. Don’t draw out your bayonets except for defence purposes. Don’t take anything out of the library. Don’t attempt any experimentation without Integra’s authorisation. Don’t try to break the seals yourself. Don’t wander the halls. Don’t interact with the staff beyond what is necessary.

Anderson was accustomed to rules. As a priest and a weapon of Iscariot, he had many he was required to follow, and he was happy to follow them. But even at their most restrictive, he couldn’t recall a time where he’d had to tell someone when he wanted to go to the bathroom so he could be escorted there. Worse still, Alucard had to wait outside, so he was awkwardly thinking about the fact Alucard could hear him pissing whenever he was relieving himself. It didn’t make for a very pleasant experience, but it was one he would have to put up with since he was only on Hellsing grounds through a tenuous truce.

His work kept him busy enough that he wasn’t too troubled by the restrictions, but he was always hyper-aware of Alucard’s presence, of his lamplight eyes observing him from the shadows. He could feel them burning into him as he made his way through the library in search of materials to supplement those he’d brought from Vatican City. It was a massive library and not especially well lit, courtesy of being very old and absent of most modern touches, so one could easily disappear between the rows. But with Alucard, it didn’t matter how far he ventured; he always felt the man’s eyes on him, even when he couldn’t see those eyes himself. The man’s sight wasn’t hindered by barriers.

Alucard had skills beyond those of a normal vampire, and Anderson knew why. But he never did do anything with that knowledge. It didn’t seem especially important after he’d dedicated some thought to it and concluded that Alucard was _Alucard_ no matter who he’d been in the past. If he examined it further, it’d be to utilise it in battle to his advantage- which wasn’t something he’d be able to do until this whole mess was dealt with, so he tried not to let himself get too pumped up for future conflicts.

The notes on how the seals were forged were so scattered that it made progress on breaking them incredibly and frustratingly sluggish, and in the interest of no one ever attempting exactly this, the previously Hellsing's hadn't left many notes, and fewer still with any substantial information. He went to bed the first night with a heavy heart and got little sleep courtesy of Alucard being required to stand guard outside his door. Something he only agreed to because he didn’t particularly want to let the vampire out his sight either.

By the third day, the only thing he’d managed to glean was that they needed several kinds of dirt from Romania, which Integra sent Seras off to retrieve. He made a wry comment about some dirt perhaps being found among the dust of the library, which was thick enough that Anderson had had to remove his gloves to avoid sullying them, but the girl was dreading the flight to Romania too much to be appropriately amused.

Early into this third day, he’d also noticed just how fatigued Alucard was, swaying on the spot while he watched Anderson stride around the dimly lit library. Something Integra must have noticed as well, since Integra was increasingly showing up to observe him. He didn’t appreciate the additional set of eyes. While he’d developed some respect for the woman since their first encounter all those years ago, he could barely tolerate being babysat by _one_ Hellsing, let alone two.

“You could sleep,” he suggested to Alucard, watching the man wobble in his peripheral vision.

Alucard gave a tired little grunt and steadied himself with a hand on the wall. “It’s not sleep I require.”

“What is it, then?”

“Freedom from the seals, first of all,” said Alucard. “And sustenance until that can be achieved.”

“You have blood bags,” Anderson pointed out with a wrinkle of his nose. The man had drunk so many that his corner was littered with empty packets.

Alucard snorted. “Low quality donations that barely touch my hunger. I have the weight of every soul I possess bearing down on me, and the energy requirement of keeping them suspended is immeasurable.”

“What happens if you run out of energy?” asked Anderson, turning to face him properly now. It couldn’t be anything too serious or Integra would have put some measures in place to ensure Alucard would never reach that point.

“I won’t run out of energy,” said Alucard, which brought some relief to Anderson. “My well of energy is just as endless as my hunger. It will never bottom out.” He spoke these words like a warning, then added in a much more measured voice: “But my functionality will be impacted by my energy being reduced to a trickle. The Police Girl may become your primary guardian when she returns.”

Anderson frowned at that prospect. The girl was skittish and prone to attempts of socialisation - he didn’t want to be watched by her, and more importantly, he wanted to keep an eye on Alucard. There was no one better suited to handling Alucard if he was utilised as a weapon again. 

“That’s not going to happen,” he said gruffly. “Ask for more blood bags.”

“Do you think there’s an infinite stock?” asked Alucard with a cocked eyebrow. “I’m not the only one who requires blood in London, priest. My supply is limited, and I’ve already finished the amount allocated to me today.”

“Get one of the staff to donate, then.”

“The quality of blood between the packets and your average person doesn’t differ that significantly. Even if I drained every one of them to the last drop, it wouldn’t be enough.”

After this conversation, it was really no wonder Integra always looked fatigued. Anderson scrubbed a hand up his face and closed the book he’d been reading.

“Elaborate,” he said impatiently. “I shouldn’t even need to tell you to-!”

“Virgin blood,” Alucard cut in, which rattled Anderson despite the answer making perfect sense. “It has a greater rejuvenating quality than any other blood. I've had a few mouthfuls through the blood packets, but I need more.”

Anderson couldn’t help being aware of how Alucard was looking at him now, eyes half-lidded and covetous, hungry. The same expression he’d been wearing for the past few days, but it was only now that Anderson recognised it for what it was.

“Go to your Master,” he said tersely.

“You aren't understanding, Anderson. She can't accommodate my hunger.” He swallowed. "I need an extraordinary source."

Oh, of course. Nothing was ever easy with the Hellsing’s.

“I know what you’re thinking.” Anderson protectively raised a hand to his neck. “And I’m not letting you bite me. I have to draw the line somewhere, vampire.”

“I don’t have to bite you,” said Alucard, and it was impossible to miss the note of desperation in his voice. Anderson couldn’t will himself to look back into that hungry gaze. “You could fill a container. I know you’d regenerate the blood lost within minutes, so you’d be best for it.” He heard the wet sound of a tongue gliding over lips before Alucard spoke again. “I can smell you from over here, Anderson.”

The remark elicited disgust, which was expected. What wasn’t expected was the accompanying embarrassment, which displayed itself through colour on Anderson's cheeks and the tips of his ears. He turned away from Alucard with his shoulders hunched and pressed a palm to his cheeks in an effort to force away the warmth. He could tolerate Alucard acknowledging that he was a virgin; that wasn’t something he was ashamed of, and it generally went without saying when one was a Catholic priest. What he couldn't tolerate was Alucard actively engaging with that fact. 

“Get what you can from Integra,” he said stiffly.

A long pause. Anderson remained hunched over the table.

“Very well,” said Alucard at last. “Seras will take over when I require reprieve. I expect to last another day or two before I will no longer be suitable as your guard.”

“The girl can watch, if necessary, but you won’t be leaving the library.” Anderson rubbed one of his red-tipped ears. “I want to keep an eye on you.”

He could almost hear the furrowing of Alucard’s eyebrows. “Do you expect me to drag my coffin in here? Because I will need it to be even moderately comfortable.”

“Sit in a corner,” said Anderson, flapping a hand toward the corner Alucard was currently occupying. “You said you won’t run out of energy, so comfort isn’t an issue.”

Alucard barked a laugh, and that was enough to compel Anderson to turn back around regardless of the state of his face.

“You demand concessions from me when you aren’t willing to extend them yourself.” Alucard spoke fast and clipped, straightening as much as his condition would allow. Which wasn’t very much. “I’m sure you feel entitled to them, like the church always does, but I am not among your faithful, and nor am I among the many Rome has subjugated and forced their will upon. If you want me to sit in here with you despite the immense discomfort it would cause me, then I require something from you in return.”

Anderson’s jaw involuntarily tightened. It was obvious Alucard’s words were prompted by his exhaustion, but it made Anderson no less annoyed to acknowledge that.

“It’s for the benefit of _all_ of us that I’m telling you to stay here,” he snapped. “I can be first to act if you’ve overtaken while I’m nearby.”

“I don't care,” said Alucard, speaking brusquely. “It’s a concession for me to remain here despite my discomfort, and despite my vulnerability, and particularly so when I know you’d slink off to somewhere dark and quiet yourself were you in a similar situation. You either do this for me, or you'll just have to put up with my absence.”

Alucard wobbled as he stepped out of the dark, and in the light Anderson could see just how pallid he was, his skin so white and translucent that Anderson could see a hint of a withered vein in his neck. His state was dire and that served to make Anderson even more frustrated. Maybe they could have figured something else out if he’d spoken up sooner. As it was, Alucard didn’t look as though he’d manage to last even the day or two he was suggesting.

“You're being unreasonable,” he snarled out, trying to ease his foul mood by rearranging his supplies, moving books and papers into neat stacks and wiping the dust off the table with a fist. He couldn’t get into a fight with Alucard. He couldn’t satiate his anger that way, so he tried to channel it into something productive instead.

Tried being the operative word, because Alucard threw himself into Anderson a moment later and there was no restraining himself after that. The only problem was, Alucard caught his wrists before he could give him a good pummel, his grip deceptively strong despite his poor health and his eyes wide and bright with an arcane power. Anderson had his mouth open and a snarl of a question ready in his throat, but he was shocked into silence when Alucard closed his lips over the side of his hand.

A pinprick of red sliding into the crevice of his palm caught his eye. He hadn’t even noticed he’d given himself a paper cut. Alucard had, evidently, and he was ravenously lapping away what little blood had spilt, his tongue slick and cold on Anderson’s heated skin. It was more so shock than Alucard’s grip that kept him in place. And following the shock, it was something much less viable as an excuse that had him yielding to Alucard’s roving tongue, something much more foreign and primal. His face wasn’t the only thing that warmed this time.

He felt the scrape of teeth, told himself he should push Alucard away, fought for self-control, and then Alucard’s fangs slid smoothly into his flesh and all thoughts were promptly whisked away by a wave of pleasure. He practically keeled over, kept upright only by Alucard guiding him to lean against the table. His fingers and toes were burning, his pulse was stumbling in his throat. Heat roared its way down the length of his spine to settle somewhere at the base, where it radiated out to his gut.

This wasn’t what a vampire’s bite was meant to be. He’d heard it could be pleasurable, but this was beyond anything he’d ever imagined, beyond anything he had the capacity to imagine as such a pious man. Each mouthful Alucard took from him elicited a tremble. The church had taught him how to fight against pain, but they'd provided few tools to use against pleasure, and his body and mind were vulnerable after a lifetime of abstinence. No injury had ever caused him to feel _this_ weak.

The dizziness that accompanied Alucard’s hungry fervour was welcome, and he found himself staring down at Alucard, drinking in the sight of Alucard satiating himself on his blood. Even as awareness began to creep back in, he didn’t look away, nor pull out of Alucard’s grip, his attention fixed on the man, on his nemesis, his Goliath.

 _Your vampire_ echoed through his mind. His. His vampire. He always had thought of Alucard in those terms and it hadn’t really struck him as odd until now. Alucard had taken to referring to him as his beloved nemesis some time ago, and that, too, hadn’t registered as odd. Geremia’d had a point- his relationship with Alucard was over-invested.

He felt a little like his wings were being clipped as Alucard’s cool tongue roved over the pock marks on his hand, the pleasure continuing to ripple through his body like a fading whirlpool.

The moment Alucard withdrew, he shoved the man away and turned to shakily grasp at the edge of the desk. His blood throbbed inside him like it’d just been struck with electricity, and what was happening beyond his belt was best not acknowledged.

“Priest,” said Alucard, and then he quietly amended himself: “Anderson. I apologise.” He heard Alucard moving behind him, but he didn’t turn around. Couldn’t, in his current state. He couldn’t let Alucard see just what his bite had done to him. “My impulses got the better of me.”

Anderson swallowed. His mouth was dry. Alucard’s impulses weren’t the only ones that had taken the reins, and any anger he might have felt had been smothered by the shame of knowing that. He couldn’t even salvage the situation by claiming he would never let Alucard do that again, as was his first instinct. The defence had barely risen to the surface of his mind before he’d had to brush it away as a lie. 

He should have being viciously opposed to being bitten after that. Instead, he was more amenable to it, and he hated himself for that.

Were he a man more inclined to flee from difficult things, he would have retired to his sleeping quarters to finish up his work there. But Anderson had never been one to take the cowards way out.

“Did you get enough?” he asked.

“Pardon?”

“Did you get enough for tonight?”

He wondered what kind of expression Alucard was wearing, but he didn’t give into the urge to look. He might not like what he saw (or worse, he might).

“That will keep me stable for the rest of the night and a little beyond that, yes.” He heard Alucard bend, then the thump of books and loose papers being placed back on the table. “Will you be so generous in the following days?”

Anderson worked his jaw as he mulled over the question. The pleasure of the bite was still playing along his nerves and he hated how compelling it was, hated how much the fact it was sourced from Alucard contributed to that.

“Is it normal?” he found himself saying, the words spilling out before he could stop himself. “For it to feel so-?” He didn’t finish, his sentence ending in a sharp exhale.

“Sentiment and intent has a lot to do with it,” said Alucard, his voice uncharacteristically gentle. “Despite what you may assume of my feelings toward you, I am fond of you, Anderson, and regard you as a worthy opponent. My bite reflects that.” Further books were placed on the table. “It’s generally agonising when I bite someone, so consider yourself special.”

Anderson tried to scoff, but he didn’t have enough breath in his lungs to do so. He took a moment to bring his breathing back to stability.

“Your presence in my life makes it immeasurably more difficult,” he muttered.

“If you had any inclination, you could have extracted yourself from me a long time ago,” said Alucard, and he pressed on before Anderson could comment on that. “Will your generosity continue?”

For a long time, Anderson was silent. Alucard didn’t break it, nor give any indication that he minded it at all. In the quiet that stretched between them he tried to bring his thoughts under control, compartmentalise them like he had so many other things in his life, but he ultimately failed in his efforts and had to resort of simply not dedicating too much thought to his situation at all. That was the reprieve of men like him: not thinking, and as a weapon of Iscariot, it was something he employed often.

“I’m not agreeing to feed you because it’s... because the sensation is pleasant,” he said, and that was the truth. He wasn’t a man who could be motivated into action by pleasure alone, and he knew he wouldn’t have found the pleasure motivating at all had he been bitten by someone other than Alucard. His motivation was too complicated to be reduced to a single element.

Of course, it being complicated didn’t necessarily make what did motivate him a good, permissible thing, so he was still going to need to do some praying to make up for the troubling sentiments for Alucard he was currently courting. When he got back to the Vatican, a long session in the confession box awaited him.

“I need to keep an eye on you,” he said thickly. “And that seems to be the most agreeable way to do it for both of us.”

“It was agreeable, was it?” asked Alucard playfully. A tone of voice that usually inspired anger in Anderson, but now only served to ease some of his tension. It was a tone that let them slip neatly back into their proper dynamic.

“Don’t push it,” he warned. “Agreeable is the best you’re going to get.”

“You wound me so, priest,” said Alucard, his smile audible, and it was clear he was guiding Anderson into a witticism, a little something to break the remaining tension. 

“Not as satisfying as an actual wounding,” said Anderson. “But it’ll do.”

It didn’t occur to him until well after he’d retired to his sleeping quarters that he could have insisted upon containers being used for future feedings, and the fact he decided against bringing it up despite Alucard standing just outside his door was something he wasn’t sure even prayer could cleanse.

* * *

Many of the experiments described in the dog-eared papers and journals Anderson extracted from the bowels of the library seemed deeply unpleasant. Anderson was no stranger to being the subject of unpleasant experimentation; it was why he’d developed an aversion to the Vatican laboratories and avoided them for all but his quarterly check-ups, but even at his most uncomfortable, he’d still gone down there willingly. He’d still _chosen_ to be a test subject. No one had forced him. Going by the writings of the late Hellsing, that couldn’t be said for Alucard, who was described to have been resistant throughout the initial experimentation and only began to settle upon the application of the seals.

Learning of this side of Alucard exacerbated the tension between them. He was growing very familiar with Alucard as not just his nemesis, but as an individual; someone with a history and struggles and wants and needs, things that challenged the narrow view he’d always had of Alucard. It brought to light why such a proud, dominating man would be so submissive and subservient to a human, and it further complicated the troubling sentiments he had for the man.

“They should have killed you,” he commented to Alucard. “Instead of this arrangement.”

It wasn’t a remark born of hostility, and the way Alucard smiled suggested he knew that.

“How far have you read?” asked Alucard as he wandered over, pulling up a seat for himself.

“Far enough to know we’ll need to prepare some fresh silver later,” said Anderson, flicking through the pages of one of the late Hellsing’s journals. He’d already read each entry multiple times, but they had such a limited amount of information to work with that he had to try to glean all he could from every sentence. “Those seals of yours,” he murmured. “They help stabilise you, don’t they?”

“They do.”

“Then what’s going to happen when we remove them?” asked Anderson.

Alucard clicked his teeth, his gaze trailing away from Anderson. “I’ll need to release the souls to maintain self-control, and they’ll have to stay out until something new can be put in place.”

A winkle in Anderson’s brow deepened. If Anderson had to release those souls, the entire world would know about it within the hour. “Is anyone working on what that ‘something new’ will be?”

“We’re currently leaning toward an amended version of the seals.” Alucard leaned back in his chair, hands cupped neatly in his lap. “Which will no longer indenture me to Hellsing, if you’re wondering. It’ll just be the control system.”

“Are you sure it’ll work?” asked Anderson wearily, worrying a hand up through his hair.

“No,” said Alucard. “It took Abraham months to prepare the seals he used and this is being arranged over days.”

That was about the answer he’d expected. Anderson sighed and dropped his hand back to the table, ignoring the hair that fell over his forehead. He would neaten it later. “This is going to be a media circus.”

“Humanity will adapt to the knowledge of vampires,” said Alucard smoothly, with a touch of admiration. “Your kind has a knack for it.”

Anderson turned a scrutinising look on Alucard. No matter how many times Alucard indicated he saw value in humankind, perhaps even more than he saw in his own kind, it never ceased to bewilder him. “You say that almost fondly.”

“Of course.” Alucard tipped his head, the corners of his mouth stretching and unveiling a hint of a fang. “It helps to have one I hold in such high regard sitting before me.”

Anderson shifted awkwardly in his chair. “I’m your _enemy_ , Alucard.”

Alucard laughed. “Respect and hostility don’t have to be mutually exclusive. You know that just as well as me, Anderson.”

Anderson wasn’t able to hold Alucard’s warm, wanting gaze for more than a few moments before embarrassment compelled him to look away, his eyes dropping to the journal page he’d read so many times now he could well have recited it from memory. He’d expected spending time with Alucard to be difficult, but not in _this_ manner.

“You’re learning a great deal about me from my late master’s old journals and notes,” Alucard pressed on. He leaned across the table to pick at the corner of the journal Anderson was examining. “I think it’s only fair you indulge my curiosity a little.”

“I have more important things to be doing,” said Anderson.

“You can multi-task,” said Alucard, flicking to the next page for Anderson since he’d neglected to do it himself. Anderson’s face warmed at being caught out. 

“Fine, since you’re so insistent.” He knew so much about Alucard now that it bordered on uncomfortable, so offering some answers in return could ease that. “You can ask a few questions, but if I say ‘pass’, you’re to drop the subject immediately. Is that clear?”

“Perfectly.” Alucard made himself comfortable by dropping back in his chair and raising his legs to the table, crossing them at the ankle. Anderson shot him an annoyed look, which Alucard ignored. “You know how I came to be indentured, so how did you come to be Iscariot’s regenerator?”

“Through survival,” he answered simply. He hadn’t been the only candidate for the regenerator project. He hadn’t even been the most promising candidate, but he had been the only one who survived having his body reassembled from the inside out by biotechnology. The technology had improved significantly since he’d been made and they’d managed to mildly enhance some other soldiers, but it’d be some time before they eliminated the possibility of bodies being irrevocably damaged by the process instead of improved, and even longer before survivability for the full regeneration process wasn’t in the realm of one to five percent.

“And?” Alucard pressed.

“I was a decent, dedicated soldier who survived the process,” he said, shrugging a shoulder. “There isn’t much more to it than that.”

Anderson’s eyebrows shot up. “The rest died?”

“I thought that was implied.”

“I’m just impressed,” said Alucard, and he certainly sounded it. “Your perseverance is something to be admired, my beloved nemesis.”

Anderson needlessly cleared his throat. His face didn’t warm, which was a small victory. “Are you done or is there something else you want to know?”

“I’m nowhere near done. I could go all night, if you permitted it.”

“I won’t.”

“That’s about the answer I expected.” Alucard thoughtfully drummed his fingers on his thigh. “What kind of soldier were you prior to becoming a regenerator?”

“I just told you,” said Anderson, flippant. “Dedicated.”

“Surely there are more adjectives you could use than that.”

“Committed,” offered Anderson, thinking himself quite funny. “Devoted, driven, loyal, resolute.” He was pleased when his wit earned him a chuckle.

“That a priest is capable of humour never ceases to surprise me,” said Alucard. “But if you don’t wish to answer, you only need say ‘pass’.”

“It’s not that.” Anderson flipped to the next page in the journal and glanced up at Alucard. “It’s just I don't have an interesting answer. I was like any other Iscariot soldier before I became a regenerator.” Well, that wasn’t entirely true- “A little more passionate than the others, but I think you could have come to that conclusion without me pointing it out.”

Passionate to the point of being made to attend mandatory psychiatric assessments by his former handler, in fact, but his Vatican-assigned psychiatrist had eventually concluded that Anderson’s brand of instability was beneficial to Iscariot. Everyone at Iscariot had something wrong with them, so he fit right in. He was just among the more severe cases, and that didn’t bother Anderson one bit. As long as it was beneficial to his service to the church, it didn’t need to be fixed.

He closed the journal and moved onto a stack of loose papers. Much of the text was faded, but there was still some pertinent information in what text remained legible.

“I did use guns more often, back then,” he continued. “The kind with bayonets attached, of course. I always preferred blades, but they weren’t sensible when I was limited by how many I could carry on my person and while Iscariot was reluctant to replace the ones I lost.”

“What do they think of the ones you lose now?” asked Alucard with a toothy grin, clearly amused by the titbit Anderson had provided.

“The clean-up crew aren’t a fan.” Or so he’d heard. He’d never had any direct communication with them, just been told through the grapevine. “Maxwell hasn’t offered comment. He doesn’t pay much mind to the aftermaths of my work.”

“I’m not surprised,” said Alucard. “And did a younger Alexander Anderson get up to any mischief? Have any fun?”

“Not the kind you’re thinking off,” said Anderson gruffly. “Any ‘fun’ I had was sanctioned by the church.”

“Does that apply to all your youth?” asked Alucard, eyes wide with curiosity and delight.

“Well…” Anderson absentmindedly rubbed at his neck. “All children get into trouble on occasion, and I was no exception.”

“What kind of trouble did a little Alexander get up to?”

“The kind that involved fists, and the kind that involved thieving knives from the kitchen.” Though he had otherwise tried to be a well-behaved child. His temper had just gotten the better of him at times, particularly when confronted with heathens.

Alucard let out a burst of laughter. “How appropriate!”

Their conversation continued well past the time it should have ended, into the late of night. Anderson was startled when he glanced at his wristwatch and found them a scant few minutes from midnight. The passing hours hadn’t been unproductive; he’d uncovered a new element to the process they would need to keep in mind while preparing the silver, but it was just… strange to have enjoyed conversing with his nemesis to the point of forgetting the passing of time.

Alucard returned to his corner and Anderson threw himself back into his research until exhaustion compelled him to bed, as had been his habit since arriving in London. It wasn’t ideal, but couldn’t find sleep at all while being observed by a vampire unless he was desperate for it. Staying up until exhaustion crept in meant he was asleep the moment he hit the blankets, and he usually managed to stay that way for at least five hours.

* * *

It wasn’t until noon the following day that Alucard started to droop again, listing forward as he stood in his corner. Anderson had been in the process of stuffing a freshly made hollow stake with Romanian dirt when he noticed. He hastened to finish up so he could check on the man. It took him a good few minutes to finish filling the stake, consecrate it, and slip it into the folds of his coat, and when he next looked up, Alucard was leaning against the wall with his eyes closed. It was a small consolation that he hadn’t toppled over.

He approached Alucard’s corner. Alucard slowly raised his head at the sound of footsteps.

“You look terrible,” said Anderson.

Alucard snorted. “It’s nothing compared to how I feel.” He straightened and looked hungrily down to Anderson's wrist, which was just visible under the sleeves of his clergy wear. “I’m surprised you didn’t spend yesterday convincing yourself I could manage without being fed.”

“Even if I had, it would have become immediately apparent that wasn’t the case.” He pulled in a sharp breath through his teeth and tugged up his coat, jacket, and shirt sleeves, only able to get partially up his forearm due to how thick they were. Even as he told himself he wouldn’t enjoy it this time, that he would force it to be perfunctory, warmth was starting to creep up his neck and into his face. “Go on,” he ground out. “Make it quick.”

Alucard dragged him close by the forearm with such speed that Anderson almost got whiplash, but once Alucard had Anderson’s wrist within reach of his mouth, his lips grazing along the carpal bones, he didn’t immediately bite down. He first ran his tongue delicately over the skin, tracing the visible veins with the tip. Anderson had to look away to hide how rapidly his facial capillaries were filling. 

“It’s alright to enjoy it, Judas Priest,” Alucard purred, and at the exact moment Anderson opened his mouth to protest, he sunk his teeth in.

What came out of Anderson instead of a protest was a ragged and terribly embarrassing moan, which might have prompted Anderson to stomp off if not for the fact he now no longer had the desire to do anything except lean into Alucard’s bite.

Alucard curled an arm around his shoulders and threaded his fingers into the fine hair at his nape. Slight though the contact was, it raced through Anderson’s nerves and drew a shiver and a clench of his teeth. He tried to maintain composure, tried to shake off the fog rapidly enveloping his mind, but Alucard drank from him in a steady stream and he found it impossible not to sink into it.

“I’ve never met someone so reactive,” purred Alucard against his blood-smeared skin. “It’s delightful.”

“Shut up,” Anderson rasped, squeezing his eyes shut so he couldn’t see that luminescent gaze studying his every reaction.

Alucard secured his lips back over Anderson’s wrist and rumbled deep in his chest as he drank. Anderson swallowed at how very appealing that sound was, a sound no human could ever hope to replicate, a reminder that he was dealing with something far more dangerous and preternatural than your standard vampire. 

“O my God,” he breathed, the words falling thoughtlessly from his lips. “I am heartily sorry for having offended Thee, and I d-deh-“ Alucard’s fangs drove deeper, provoking a fresh wave of pleasure that had all the air evacuating Anderson’s lungs in a groan. He had to take several deep, needy breaths before he was able to resume his prayer. “And I d-detest all my sins because I dread the loss of Heaven and the pains of hell, but most of all because they have offended Thee, my God.”

He felt Alucard’s lips twitch around his skin, a barely perceivable smile. The hand at his nape slid up the slope of his skull and twisted around a handful of hair, jerking Anderson’s head back, which sent a thunderclap of arousal zigzagging its way down his spine. It took all the self-control he had left not to give into the urge to arch himself into Alucard like a wanton whore. How low he’d been brought.

“W-who art all good and deserving of all my love.” He swallowed hard. “Our Saviour Jesus Christ suffered and died for us. In his name, my God, have mercy.” A few crucial lines were missing, but as far gone as he was, he wasn’t going to lie during prayer. “Have mercy.”

The teeth slipped out at long last, and Anderson wobbled from more than just the lingering pleasure this time. He nearly fell straight into Alucard. His body was heavy, his limbs weighing him as though full of lead, and his heart jack-hammered in his chest. He recognised that these issues weren’t the result of arousal, even if arousal was a largely foreign experience for him.

“Priest,” said Alucard gently, pulling Anderson to his chest. Anderson grasped at the edge of the table and one of Alucard’s lapels, leaving both slick with his sweat. There were pins and needles in his extremities, making them feel large and unwieldy. He wiggled them and it didn’t help.

“You aren’t regenerating as fast as before,” murmured Alucard. “I can hear it. I could taste it.” Alucard leaned in, lips tickling the shell of his ear. Anderson shivered. “You haven’t eaten, have you?”

Eaten, drank, slept- he’d had little of any of them since arriving at the Hellsing estate, and his regeneration was expansive enough that he hadn’t felt any repercussions until this point. If not for the blood loss, he probably wouldn’t have been troubled by the exhaustion for a few days more. 

The throbbing arousal was dying down to be replaced with lethargy, and Anderson wasn’t going to complain about that part. This was a convenient way to not have to think about what had just happened, much less do anything about it.

“Feeding me and forgetting yourself,” said Alucard with a cluck of his tongue. “How very priestly of you.”

The only priestly thing that had occurred in this entire encounter.

He drew up a little straighter and turned to the exit. Getting to the kitchen would be an uncomfortable journey, but short of being immolated, there was nothing that could keep Anderson down.

“I’ll be able to grab something to eat and drink when you let me go,” he pointed out, tapping his knuckles on Alucard’s arm.

“You,” began Alucard, pressing Anderson back and down until he’d dropped into a chair. “Will be staying right here. My master has permitted me to leave when necessary. She has not permitted _you_ to leave.” His long fingers curled around Anderson’s chin, guiding him into looking up. “And you fed me, so you will allow me to return that generosity.”

Anderson snorted. “I _will_? You’re being very demanding for one trying to be generous, Alucard.”

“Old habits of a former warlord and count.”

It was the first time Alucard had referenced his history, and Anderson was left gaping a little as Alucard swiftly made his exit. A former warlord and count- well, if he’d _needed_ confirmation, there it was. One day he might have some questions for Alucard, might satiate his interest in history with one who had _lived_ it, but that wouldn’t be anytime soon.

He slumped in his chair as the door shut behind Alucard and let his legs fan out, closing his tired eyes. The distant buzz of fatigue that had been plaguing him the past few days had turned all-consuming through the blood loss. It was tempting to grab a nap where he was, just a few hours to refuel his critically low system. He’d made enough progress to justify a nap; he’d be done in less than a week. He only needed finish putting together the ritual and perform some tests, then the tool would be ready for use. But Alucard would soon arrive with food, and his growling stomach persuaded him to remain awake.

Alucard’s return was announced by rubber striking wood as he kicked the door open. In his hands was clutched a small silver tray, on which was a plate of sandwiches and bottle of wine with an accompanying wine glass. This was no time of day to be drinking wine, but Alucard had the glass on the table and topped it up before he could protest. It smelt a mighty fine wine, beautifully aged. One glass wouldn’t hurt. It was only excess that the Vatican prohibited.

“Did you make those?” asked Anderson as he picked at a sandwich, examining the chicken and salad wedged between the bread.

“I did.” Alucard sat himself in the chair closest to him.

Anderson looked bemused. “Really?”

“You think making a sandwich beyond me?”

“Below you, more like.”

“Being a good host is not below me,” said Alucard, and Anderson was reminded immediately of the fact Bram Stoker’s Dracula had described him – at least initially – as a generous and considerate host.

He took a bite out of the corner of one of the sandwiches and chewed. Maybe it was just the ravenous hunger talking, but it was _good_.

“Th…” Expressing gratitude to Alucard felt so strange that he had to pause before continuing. “Thank you.”

“Don’t strain yourself, priest,” said Alucard with a laugh.

Anderson pinched his face before it could develop a sheepish expression. “It’s not that,” he said, drawing the plate of sandwiches closer. “It’s just… isn’t this odd for you? Working with your enemy?” It couldn’t just be him, surely. “It is for me.”

“I was indentured to my enemy for several years and I remain the servant of his family, so no, working with my enemy is not odd for me.” Alucard leaned back in his chair and crossed his legs. “I find your presence agreeable, in any case.”

“Agreeable? Because you claim to respect me?”

“I don’t claim it, Anderson: I do,” said Alucard, and with so much conviction Anderson couldn't doubt its sincerity. “And your conversational skills are one of the attributes of yours I appreciate. Though, not the one I appreciate the most.” There was delight audible in his voice as he said: “That would go to your ability on the battlefield.”

A corner of Anderson’s lips curled. “There’s something to appreciate in yours as well. Enough to determine that no one else but I-“ A pause. “But Iscariot,” he amended, Geremia’s words ringing in his ears. “Deserves to be the cause of your end.”

Alucard tilted forward in his chair, smiling wide. “But _you_ , Anderson. No one but you.”

He hated how much he liked hearing that. “I’m part of Iscariot.”

“But we both know that’s not what you meant,” said Alucard.

Anderson could tell arguing wasn’t going to get him anywhere, so he stuffed his mouth full of sandwich as a means to end the conversation. Not the most dignified thing to do, but Alucard seemed to get the message and began picking through the files Anderson had spread across the table. His energy levels began to recover as he consumed sandwich after sandwich, filling himself to capacity. They were no substitute for a good nights sleep, but they did provide him enough energy to get through the rest of the day without succumbing to the urge to ruin his sleeping schedule with a mid-day nap.

He fell heavy into bed a little before nine and slept like a rock until the trill of his phone jolted him awake. His eyes jumped to the clock on the bedside table as he lumbered out of bed to retrieve his phone from his coat. Three thirty am. This wasn’t a check-up call.

He sought the dark corner of the room for the glow of Alucard’s eyes as he raised the phone to his ear. The man was standing by the door, the tilt of his head just barely visible in the moonlight.

The dial tone ceased. “Maxwell?”

“Anderson!”

That was not a promising greeting. Twirling his finger to indicate Alucard should turn to the wall, Anderson started throwing his clothes onto the bed in preparation to change. He was used to being called out during the early hours of the morning, so he was practised at getting dressed while being briefed.

“You’re needed in Rome,” said Maxwell, speaking so hastily he was barely intelligible. “I’ve already sent a jet to pick you up! It should be there shortly to take you to St. Paul’s stronghold- several Vatican holds have been attacked!”

“I need you to slow down,” said Anderson, and fortunately, he heard Maxwell suck in a few centring breaths a moment later. “You say there was an attack?” he asked, because he’d been able to understand that much.

Alucard made a curious sound from across the room.

“Several,” Maxwell corrected him. “Several Vatican holds have been attacked.”

Anderson’s nerves prickled with trepidation. “Matthias? Was Matthias among them?”

“It was. He’s looking for the nail.”

Anderson’s blood pressure soared at the mere thought of Geremia having _all_ the holy relics. “And did he get it?” he asked, the question coming louder than intended.

“No,” said Maxwell quickly. “It’s not in any of the facilities. We already suspected he might try this, but we didn’t anticipate his forces being this significant. I knew the Vatican enemies were many, but this is- he’s made a cult for his new vision of the world.”

“Nothing new there,” Anderson muttered while tugging his trousers into place. “People have been making cults for ‘new visions of the world’ since cults became a concept.”

“You’re right,” said Maxwell, the frown audible in his voice. “But he’s a little more significant than what we usually deal with. None of the others managed to poke this many holes in our armour.”

“But we _will_ deal with him,” he promised. “I’ll see that mans life leave his eyes by the end of this.” A rather macabre thing to say, but Maxwell was used to such proclamations and responded with a non-committal sound.

“The butler was useful in keeping Vatican City safe,” said Maxwell, with clear reluctance. “We’ll have to think about investing in wires as a weapon. Much more effective than guns or blades- but we’ll discuss that another day. I just want you to know the Vatican is safe, and so is the nail.”

“Where is it?” he asked.

“It was being held by the faithful of Torcello Cathedral. It’ll be brought to me tonight and then given to you.”

Anderson’s grip on the dress shirt he was wrestling over his head faltered. “I see.” He was quick to recover his earlier composure, pulling his shirt the rest of the way on. “Are there any other instructions to accompany that, Maxwell?”

“You’re always perceptive about these things.” A sigh from the other end of the line. “If things get out of hand, you may need to use it on yourself. Become the channel through which God deals divine justice. It’s the relic with the greatest capacity for destruction and you’ve always been our trump card, Anderson.”

A growl interrupted him before Anderson could respond. His eyes snapped to the corner of the room, having forgotten Alucard was there, and even in the stifling dark he could see the uncharacteristic glower on Alucard’s face. He was so taken aback by the sight that it took Maxwell impatiently clearing his throat for him to resume the call.

“Understood,” he said. He would do what was necessary to protect the Vatican, no matter the sacrifice. He knew use of the nail came with a steep one.

There was a long pause before Maxwell spoke again, and in a soft, hesitating tone Anderson rarely heard from him. “Anderson…”

“What, Maxwell?”

“Don't be hasty in using the nail,” said Maxwell slowly. “Keep that in mind.”

This wasn’t a request from boss to subordinate: it was from pupil to teacher, and it brought a brief, flittering smile to Anderson’s face to realise that. It wasn’t often Maxwell let them fall back into their former dynamic. “Of course, Enrico.”

“Okay,” breathed Maxwell. “The jet should land any moment now. You’ll be returning to Hellsing once we have this dealt with,” continued Maxwell. “So feel free to leave your belongings where they are.”

“What jet did you send?” he asked, now perched on the edge of his bed to tug on his socks and shoes and eyeing the furious Alucard. “I need to know if I should take anti-nausea meds.”

Maxwell gave a titter. “Oh, you’ll _definitely_ need those.”

“Fantastic,” muttered Anderson dourly.

The moment he’d tossed the phone back into his cassock, Alucard was upon him, grasping him by his lapels and shoving him up against the wall. A clear violation of the peace terms between Hellsing and Iscariot. 

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” he asked, snapping his hand hard around Alucard’s wrists and giving them a good, and hopefully painful wrench. Alucard grunted and his grip jostled, but he didn’t release Anderson.

“The nail,” said Alucard with a startling, vibrant anger. His teeth had turned jagged, gnashing like those of a shark. “Helena’s nail, is that right? You intend to turn yourself into a ‘channel for God’s will’?”

It wasn’t surprising Alucard had heard the call. Anderson still looked offended by the invasion of privacy, however. “If it becomes necessary,” he threw back.

“That man isn’t worth the sacrifice,” Alucard said fiercely. “To forfeit your humanity for him would be an unforgivable waste, a tragedy.”

“So I’m to just let my people die when I have a means to protect them?”

“Yes!” Alucard bellowed, right in his face, his eyes now wide and pupils a thin line. “To become an aberration of your god’s will, to become a monster- the souls of the dead will find peace, but you’ll become _nothing_ , and there’s no guarantee that would secure you victory over a man wielding so much more power than you.”

He’d come to learn much about Alucard since brokering peace, but the sheer self-loathing Alucard felt – the fact he saw himself as nothing – was new, and it disquieted Anderson for a long time. He was coming to know Alucard. And he realised now, quite suddenly, that Alucard was letting him know him, offering pieces of himself and all the vulnerability that accompanied them.

“Don’t become a monster like me,” said Alucard, beseeching. “A weak, pitiful creature who couldn’t die with human grace. Don’t let that man destroy you.”

Anderson swallowed. He felt as though the beast had ripped him open and squirmed his way inside, because he cared about Alucard's feelings, he cared, and he hated that he couldn’t convince himself not to. It would have been so much easier if it wasn’t evident Alucard cared as well.

“There are other ways to use the nail,” he said quietly. It could perhaps be used _on_ Geremia, since it wouldn't turn everyone into a weapon. Intent mattered.

“Will you use them?” asked Alucard.

“I-“ Anderson licked his lips. “If that man is dealt with, I’ll have no need to use the nail at all. That would be my preference.”

Alucard slowly unwound his fingers from Anderson’s coat. “I’ll hold it to you not to throw in the towel before we’re at the very precipice.”

“I’m not beholden to you,” Anderson said, before adding: “But I’ll wait until I'm _beyond_ the shore of hell before I commit to such a path. You can be assured of that.”

* * *

The first thing Anderson did upon reaching land was vomit into the nearest bush he could find. The second thing he did was go barrelling into the Vatican stronghold with the taste of vomit still swirling about his mouth and six bayonets held at the ready. Many of Geremia’s men had retreated, but there were a few forced to linger through the efforts of Vatican forces, bullets spraying between both parties through a decimated courtyard with a still-streaming fountain. Anderson stepped right into the fray. Took several bullets to the chest, thighs, and stomach, and kept going even as bone splintered and organs ruptured, storming toward his targets with eyes wide and lips pulled back to bare teeth and gums. Apparently this display was enough to bring an end to the fighting, because he hadn’t gotten more than a few feet before the men dropped of their own accord.

Dropped dead, that was. The drooling and twitching of their bodies as they expired made it immediately apparent what had happened. Cyanide capsules, in this day and age. A terrible way to go, but he couldn’t think of anyone more deserving than those who’d dared break into and desecrate a holy place.

He examined the bodies for any immediate evidence, picking through their clothes and finding nothing of interest. Just some ammunition and small containers of suicide capsules. No phones. No notes. Geremia had been careful to ensure the Vatican had nothing to work with. Breathing a sigh through his teeth, Anderson rose back to his feet.

He gave the bodies one last dispassionate glance before turning to address the remaining Vatican soldiers, who were tentatively peeking out from behind pillars. A few of them weren’t even _soldiers_. One young man was openly crying, and Anderson made a beeline for him, folding his hands over the mans shoulders and offering him a pack of tissues from his pocket.

“Don’t cry. You’ve contributed to repelling the enemy,” said Anderson. “Be proud of that.”

The man had to take a few gulping breaths before he could reply. “O-of course, Father Anderson.” He palmed at his pink cheeks, trying futilely to dry them. “I’m sorry, I just- I’m in the communications department, and I’ve never seen anything like this.”

“I’m sorry you had to be pulled into this,” said Anderson, giving his shoulders a squeeze. He looked a young man, somewhere in his early twenties, and still a deacon. Poor boy would have to live with the memories of his brethren dying in front of him for the rest of his life. 

“It's alright,” said the man quietly, his voice wet. "I contributed to repelling the enemy, like you said, and I'm- I'm proud to have saved lives."

"As you should be."

Anderson released him to cast his eyes first over those still standing, then over the wrecked courtyard, searching for any survivors in need of medical care. He always kept a first-aid kit on hand, and he might at the very least be able to plug a bullet hole or apply a splint. “Is there anyone who needs immediate medical care? Tell me if there is.” He raised a finger and pointed at an ageing man who looked a little steadier on his feet than everyone else present. The man startled at being singled out. “And I’d like you to call Enrico Maxwell and tell him the fate of your opponents.”

“Oh!” said the man, eyes widening. Evidently he knew who Anderson was as well, despite Anderson never having seen his face. “I’ll do that right away! Thank you for the assistance, Father.”

He nodded his appreciation before turning to a woman who had tentatively raised a bloody arm to him. She’d been shot, and yet she barely gave any indication of such. Must have been part of security. The Vatican always employed people with stiff spines for that role.

He gave her a good handful of pain meds and sat her down to extract the bullet. It was a slow, unpleasant process, but he had practice thanks to how many times he’d had to do it to himself (his body hadn’t always been able to easily expel the bullets), so it was as bearable for her as it could have possibly been. By the time he had finished, the man he’d sent off to contact Maxwell was waiting patiently for acknowledgement.

“News?” said Anderson, glancing up at the man.

They took a jittery step forward. “A Matthias agent that was guarding Torcello Cathedral will be here in fifteen minutes. He said to call once you’ve received the item.”

“Anything else?”

“Uh…” He looked nervously to the corpses of his fallen opponents. “The clean up crew won’t be here for a while, so he said we’d have to move the bodies somewhere discreet ourselves. He said you’d be happy to help with that.”

‘Happy’ wasn’t the right word; he didn’t exactly enjoy touching the dead, but he would help regardless. He rose and tossed a few pairs of gloves to the man. Almost all his supply, but he wouldn’t force them to touch bodies without them.

“Get the able among you to assist with clearing this place out. We’ll move them into the parking garage.”

“Of course,” said the man, hurrying to do as he’d been instructed.

By carrying three bodies at a time (one in each hand, another draped over his shoulders), Anderson was able to clear the bulk of the courtyard and offices before he heard a jet set down on the nearby landing strip. There were only a few corpses remaining, so he left them in favour of meeting the Matthias Agent on the field. He didn’t want the Nail to be out in the open longer than necessary. One couldn’t be too cautious when dealing with a man familiar with how the Vatican operated. Not so much that he’d been able to predict where the Nail would be taken, but there was no guarantee he didn’t have contingency plans for that.

He recognised the Matthias agent – Arnold, an elder agent who was often used during cross missions with Iscariot and Matthias. He extended his hand once Arnold was within reach, which Arnold took and gave a good squeeze.

“I’d say it’s good to see you, but, well…” Arnold sighed and released his hand. “I can smell the gun powder from here.”

“We’ll manage, Arnold,” he assured him. “We always do.”

“Not without losses,” said Arnold morosely. He reached into the folds of his coat and drew out a small wooden box, presenting it to Anderson with flourish. “’Spose our enemy is trying to stop us from having a fighting chance. Luckily, we still have you, and we still have this despite that little weasels best efforts.”

Anderson accepted the box and turned it over in his hands, and he could feel the holy power encased within, a thrumming presence that trembled up his fingers and raced through his nerves. He took a short breath through his nose. He’d never before been permitted to hold a holy relic. It was a profound experience, but a short one, as he was hasty in slipping the relic into the depths of his coat. Best not to risk someone seeing him with it.

“This isn’t all we’ll have, soon,” he said, his tone distracted. “But it ought to be helpful if things don’t go according to plan.”

“Say no more,” said Arnold, holding up a hand. “I mean that. Whatever you’re doing, Enrico is keeping hush on it, and I know he wouldn’t do that without good reason.”

Anderson’s eyes snapped back to Arnold. “I expect he's worried about the walls having ears, after everything that has happened.” He straightened and folded his hands behind his back. “You take care of yourself. We'll probably be facing another attack soon.”

“I’d rather not take care,” said Arnold gruffly. “But Enrico said the same thing. I must be getting old.” He pursed his lips and shook his head. “I’ll grab a gun and join the rest of you on the field when the battle arrives, but I’ll try to take care in the meantime.”

“You haven’t become any less fierce in your old age,” said Anderson with amusement.

“Nor have you,” said Arnold. “Just because you _look_ young doesn’t mean you get to avoid the old category like the rest of us.” He turned to stride back toward a waiting helicopter, waving over his shoulder. “Until later, Anderson! Provided there _is_ a later for both of us.”

Anderson waved his farewells and started toward his own transport. There wasn’t any time to offer a farewell to Pauls’ division; he needed to get back to Hellsing and resume his research, least Geremia launch another attack before he’d managed to finish.

The next few days were something of a blur courtesy of Anderson spending an inordinate amount of time awake and only remembering to eat and drink because Alucard would periodically offer him meals. “We don’t need a repeat of what happened last time you neglected your health,” Alucard would say, despite the fact Anderson hadn’t provided him blood since then. Without adequate sustenance, he was becoming just as fatigued as Anderson, struggling not to nod off throughout the day.

It was the sight of Alucard slumped against the wall on the third, or maybe forth day (the library was dark and he’d been sleeping at odd hours, so he hadn’t a good idea of the passage of time) that finally prompted Anderson to slow down. The work was largely done. He only needed write out the instructions and deliver them to Integra. Now he needed to make efforts toward rejuvenation, starting with Alucard. He'd feed him as much as he could in preparation for tomorrows battle.

Before approaching Alucard, he cleared his table of all documentation and gathered the plates and cutlery that had accumulated. His health wasn’t the only thing he’d been neglecting, and Alucard seemed to have reached a point where he was too engrossed in his hunger to clean up after Anderson. Anderson's nerves prickled and face preemptively warmed when he thought about how intense this feeding had the potential to be, but he pressed on through his reservations.

“Your chambers,” he told Alucard on his way to the exit.

Alucard jerked his head up, eyes covetous. “For?”

“You know what for,” said Anderson, slipping out and down the hall.

He gave the kitchen staff an apologetic look when depositing his dishes into the sink. He would have cleaned them himself, had he the time to spare, but he needed to feed Alucard, write out the instructions for Integra, and rest, so time wasn’t exactly on his side.

While he hadn’t ventured into Alucard’s chambers since arriving at the Hellsing estate, he’d gone out of his way to make note of its location so he could add it to the Hellsing file at some point. They knew the general layout of the building, but this was the first any Iscariot had been inside, and a brief truce didn’t mean he wouldn’t gather all the advantages he could from the experience.

He wasn’t surprised to find that Alucard’s chambers descended even further into the earth. Probably even further than any other place in the estate. There didn't appear to be any light at the end of the stairs, and mid-way down the light from the hallway faded away to nothing and drowned him in a sea of black. At the landing, even with his impeccable night vision, Anderson could see nothing. Hear nothing too, despite the fact Alucard must have made it to the basement by now and must have known he was there.

“Not tired enough to not play games, I see,” he said, exasperated.

“Tired enough to need them,” said Alucard.

From his voice, he was able to gauge that the man was standing behind him, just at his left shoulder, and the fact he hadn’t heard so much as a rustling of fabric had a fearful, primeval part of him rising to attention. He took a short breath, turned, and startled as his jaw encountered something cool and encased in soft fabric. Fingers, his mind informed him, and knowing they were fingers let Anderson to finding Alucard's wrist, which he curled his hand around.

“Predatory impulses,” he observed. The bright of Alucard’s eyes was the only blip of colour in the sea of dark. The glow wasn’t enough to illuminate anything.

“Prey impulses,” said Alucard with a laugh, fingers smoothly delving beneath Anderson’s glove and shirt to make room for his teeth. His other hand rose to Anderson’s collar, tugging at it. “Standing in the dark with a predator- the fact you’re allowing it is testament to your will.”

Anderson’s ears flared red. “You’re not going to persuade me to let you drink from my neck with compliments, Alucard.” He tried to brush away the hand at his collar to no avail, Alucard hungrily grappling at his clothes.

“Merely an observation,” said Alucard, swallowing wetly. “I wish to drink from your forearm. Your clothes are in the way.”

“Is there something wrong with my wrist?” he asked, irate, but he still shrugged off the coat and worked off the clergy jacket to allow access to his forearm. Hungry as Alucard was, he would probably end up making a mess if he drank from Anderson’s wrist, and then he’d end up without his coat and jacket anyway.

“Thin flow,” said Alucard, his voice developing a deeper rasping quality with each layer Anderson pulled out of the way. “I have been patient enough, I think. I have not bothered you with my needs.”

 _While he addressed Anderson’s_ went unsaid.

“Drink,” said Anderson gruffly, shoving his shirt out of the way to unveil the crook of his elbow.

The moment permission had been extended, that quick-witted mouth had relocated to his arm and torn into it with serrated teeth, and it was so sudden, so startling, and so painful that Anderson was helpless to prevent the shout that left him. It wasn’t like the prior feedings. It hurt; it hurt not like a normal wound, but like a blistering heat applied directly to every single one of his nerves, all of them lighting up like candle wicks. A pain undoubtedly felt by most of Alucard’s victims before the relief of death. A lesser man would have jerked away, but the Iscariot trump card had greater endurance than that.

He didn’t have to endure long. The pain started to dull, and the way Alucard’s teeth shifted within his flesh suggested he was consciously manipulating the sensation despite his immense hunger. Anderson hadn’t realised how much he’d been tensing until his muscles started to unwind. So great was the relief that he listed forward, his chest jostling against Alucard’s narrow shoulder, who remained as firm as a gargoyle despite Anderson’s significant weight.

He’d been right to suspect –to fear? – that this would be even more profound than the last feeding. With the pain fading away, his senses were overcome by the pleasure of the bite, that throttling euphoria that rendered his thoughts vague and fragmented and deprived him of the ability to keep himself upright. He felt Alucard’s hands upon his chest, pushing him back, and he was in no state of mind to do anything but let them guide him across the room. Cool wood made contact with his calves and he went sprawling backwards, thudding into an un-cushioned chair- which would have been uncomfortable under any other circumstances, but he melted into the grip of that hard wood. Alucard followed him down without any trouble, one of his knees wedging in between Anderson’s thighs in a way that would have registered as obscene were Anderson not in such wonderful throes.

His arm was held aloft while Alucard drank from it, and even the pins and needles that crawled up his emptied fingers felt pleasant right now. He closed his eyes and let his head fall back. The blood loss should have left him cold, but instead he was hot to the point to sweating, his shirt sticky against his chest and the nape of his neck prickling from the heat. The thundering of his heart sent his blood raging and it was violent enough to make his bones tremble. 

He was dazed yet hyper-aware of every little feeling; the chill of the chair on his over-sensitised skin, the heat gathered in his face and chest and neck, the sweat beading off his hairline, the slide of Alucard’s cool lips on his forearm, the teeth embedded deep in his muscle. The assault was relentless, and it should have been too much, too great for a man who had denied himself a lifetime of pleasure, but it unearthed a greed he hadn’t known he possessed and he leaned into it to encourage more.

Alucard obliged. He drank slower and slid his tongue over the healing wounds with a sensuality he hadn’t displayed during past feedings. His free hand stretched out, fanned over Anderson’s jaw and slid down his neck, and God, those cool fingers felt glorious on his overheated skin. Anderson leaned into them and the thin cloth barrier that prevented direct contact melted away, so it was with bare fingers that Alucard’s hand drifted lower, down the trembling column of Anderson's throat to dip into the hollow of his clavicle, then even lower, flicking buttons out as it ventured down his chest.

When Alucard removed his teeth in favour of leaning over Anderson, into Anderson, boxing him against the chair, Anderson didn’t push him away. The seconds passed, the euphoria receded, and he still didn’t push Alucard away. The man’s hand was so close to his crotch now that he could probably feel the heat of Anderson's arousal. Anderson very nearly lifted his hips into it, remaining still only out of a lingering sense of propriety.

“Anderson.” The way Alucard said his name, with such desire, made Anderson shiver. “Tell me you want this.”

Anderson swallowed. The feeding he could regard a sacrifice to keep Alucard reliable as an ally. Anything further did not have such a convenient excuse. But the fact he was seeking excuses at all made what he wanted undeniable. He wanted Alucard, he wanted this- he didn’t even know what _this_ was going to be and he _still_ wanted it. He would never have imagined harbouring such interest for his nemesis, of all people, but Alucard had always brought odd sentiments out in him.

“Must you make everything hard?” he asked, peeling his eyes open to stare into the dark above him.

“Yes,” said Alucard with a curl of his lips. He grazed his fingers over the tent of Anderson’s trousers and Anderson choked on a breath. “Shall I spare you the witty remark?”

“Please,” Anderson breathed, which of course had two meanings, and Alucard obliged them both when he leaned down to mould his mouth over his bulge. Anderson groaned and thumped his head against the throne, arching until he was drawn with all the tension of a bow.

“Say you want this, priest,” Alucard instructed, applying pressure to the outline of Anderson’s cock with his lips and tongue. A groan spilled from Anderson's lips. “I won’t proceed until you do.”

“I-I-“ Anderson curled his hands into Alucard’s duster, fingers shaking. The last vestiges of resistance were slipping from him. All his fears of disappointing God, betraying himself, breaking his vows- slipping away. “I want this,” he said at last.

Quick work was made of his button and zipper. The moment his cock met the air, Anderson was shivering and curling his fingers and toes, tilting his hips in a way that brought it closer to Alucard’s lips. And then Alucard parted them, slipped Anderson’s cock right down into the cool, tight cavern of his throat, and that was all he needed to do to deprive Anderson of any composure that had survived the initial onslaught, reducing Anderson to shouting and shaking and thrusting needily into the soft of Alucard’s throat.

Alucard guided Anderson's legs over his shoulders, providing him greater access to Anderson’s cock and greater control over the pace of the blowjob. Probably didn’t want Anderson to finish too soon, which was a very real threat with how chaste he’d been his entire life. He could distantly feel wisps of shadow curling around his calves, keeping his legs in place, preventing him from thrusting up with as much force as he wanted to.

The flat of Alucard’s tongue ground against the underside of his cock as Alucard bobbed and sucked, keeping a pace that was almost languid, but no less pleasurable for that. Anderson wasn’t entirely conscious of what noises he was making, but he knew they were loud, keening, thoroughly debauched. He tried biting his lips shut at various points, but failed whenever Alucard did something particularly talented with his tongue. His grip on Alucard’s duster had become vice-like, knuckles white and nails biting into the fabric. Had Alucard not clothed himself in his own shadows, Anderson probably would have torn it.

At some point Alucard began to apply pressure to the ridge of his cock and that had his body quaking and his thighs tensing. All the times he’d masturbated to relieve morning arousal – which, admittedly, wasn’t often – and Anderson had never realised something so simple could feel so damn good, could make his entire body pulse and his head swim and every hair stand on end. The persistent pressure drove Anderson over the edge. He finished with a shout and involuntarily dug his heels into Alucard's back. His thighs trembled. His eyes rolled back. He pressed his head hard against the rest of the throne, and when the euphoria began to recede and exhaustion took its place, he sunk bonelessly into his seat.

Alucard drew off his cock and gently tucked him back into his trousers. He zipped Anderson up, straightened his clothes, and then rose to lean his face into the side of Anderson’s neck, his cheek a shock of cold against Anderson heated skin. Anderson didn’t mind. It felt nice, and frankly, even if it hadn’t, he was much too tired and satisfied after his orgasm to much care about such trifles. 

“You will have to reciprocate, at some point,” said Alucard, smiling against his skin.

Anderson huffed. “Let me bask in the moment.”

“Very well,” said Alucard. “But I don’t have accommodations for a human here, so I will be transferring you to bed at some point.”

“Mmm,” was all Anderson said to that. He didn’t even want to _think_ about moving right now. Just wanted to sit there in the dark while the afterglow washed over him.

Which he got to do for maybe thirty minutes before Alucard heaved him out of the throne and carried him to his bed. It was assistance Anderson didn’t particularly appreciate, nor need, but he was so tired that he decided to hold off on complaining until he got some sleep. The moment he was deposited into his bed, he drifted off. 

* * *

Anderson awoke to something curling around his shoulders. His time as a soldier had honed his sensitivity to stimuli during slumber, so he was awake within a split of a second, reaching for a bayonet he kept beneath his pillow- and finding nothing, because there was no pillow beneath him. Just hard, unforgiving floor that was sticky with liquid. That didn’t prevent him from gripping the intruder about the arm and wrapping a hand around their throat, forcing them to extend it to avoid injury.

The realisation he was currently holding Seras Victoria followed a few moments later. His grip slackened, but didn’t release completely. The liquid, he belatedly realised, was blood, and the amount crusted around the back of his head made it evident where it had come from. 

“What-?”

“He’s gone!” Seras shouted over him. “Master- Alucard- he’s gone!”

Anderson’s gaze flew to the dark next to his door, which was absent of the pinpricks of light that represented Alucard’s eyes. Even a whisper of a sound was enough to wake him at night, so it didn’t take an Einstein (or whatever the saying was) to figure out what instruction Geremia had given to ensure Anderson wouldn’t be cognisant for Anderson's escape.

He threw the girl aside and perched on the edge of the bed to pull on his shoes and socks. He’d been going to bed in his clothes lately (clean ones, of course) so he would be prepared to leave at a moments notice, so shoes and socks were all the clothes he needed to worry about. Seras anxiously paced the floor.

“I’ll be borrowing a jet,” he told Seras, reaching for his phone. The fact he hadn’t received a call from the Vatican was concerning. Every potential reason for that chilled his blood.

“Master destroyed them,” said Seras. “There’s- there’s nothing. Not even a helicopter left.”

Anderson pinched his fingers over his eyes. “An air force jet, then,” he decided, leaping to his feet. “Tell Integra.”

“But she wanted to speak to you,” said Seras weakly. “I’m supposed to bring you to her office!”

“Too bad,” said Anderson.

She opened her mouth, tried to say something else, but Anderson slipped out the room before she could. He dialled Maxwell’s number as he took leaping strides down the hall. Dialled it again when that resulted in an absent beeping, and then began to dial as many other numbers as he could remember off the top of his head, desperately seeking someone who could tell him the state of Vatican City.

It took four attempts for his call to finally reach someone.

“Renaldo,” he said, relieved. “Renaldo, Alucard is missing.”

“No, he isn’t,” said Renaldo, his voice so uncharacteristically small and frightened that it made Anderson’s stomach drop. It was exactly the answer he’d been anticipating, but actually hearing it still made his heart run that little bit faster. “That beast is here.”

Anderson swallowed thickly. “Is he attacking?”

“No, he’s-“ A pause. “No one can escape. He surrounded Vatican City, and there’s buildings on fire. Sir Walter couldn't hold him back. I don’t know what’s happening, but we can’t even fly out. We can’t call for help- the lines have been cut. There’s no power.” A shuddering breath. “St. Peter's Basilica is burning.”

Anderson staggered forward, catching himself on a wall. St. Peter's Basilica, burning. Centuries of history wiped out by one madman, and he knew more would be burned off the face of the earth before he managed to reach Rome.

Anderson's fingers shook as he drew out his bible, preparing to teleport his way to RAF Lakenheath. He didn’t know _how_ to fly a jet. He’d have to track down one of the Vatican plants and have them fly him there.

“You didn’t break the seals,” breathed Renaldo. “Did you make any progress? Any at all?”

“I did.” Everything was done. Everything- except the breaking of the seals. If not for that damned blowjob sending him to sleep, this could have been prevented, and he felt a right, selfish fool to have let pleasure be the reason for his failure. “I have everything I need," he said. 

There was no time to transfer the information and tools to Integra. He’d have to do it himself, break the terms Iscariot had brokered with Hellsing. It wasn’t as though Iscariot hadn’t done it before, and for less legitimate reasons than her pet vampire acting as a blockade while his people were slaughtered.

“How fast can you get here?” asked Renaldo, and he must have stepped outside, because Anderson could hear faint crackling and yelling.

“They purchased the Eurofighter Typhoon earlier this year.” Iscariot kept tabs on these things. One could never be too cautious with protestants. “I’ll push it to its greatest speed possible.” He feverishly went over the numbers. “It’ll take me about thirty minutes to get there. Hold on for thirty minutes.”

Renaldo immediately recognised who 'they' was. The man always had been perceptive and well-informed. “William Ruthner. Aeronautical Engineer. You’ll find him in the hangar. Code word is Agnus Dei.”

“I’ll see you soon, Father Renaldo.”

“I have every faith you’ll come through for us, Father Anderson.”

He ended the call and drew out his bible. A torrent of scripture rose up as he flipped it open and he took a deep breath, focusing on where he wanted to go. Great distances could be achieved with the right amount of focus and patience- patience which was very difficult to find right now, but he closed his eyes, breathed out, breathed in, and thought hard about where he wanted to be, calling on photographs to identify a safe place to be deposited.

The warm light that radiated from the pages suffused him like a blanket and then receded all at once. When he opened his eyes he was standing a few feet from a towering hangar and surrounded by people skittering away, having been caught in his torrent of scripture. He turned to the closest one and hauled them close by their shirt, which prompted a few of the others to fumble weapons into their hands.

“William Ruthner. I need to speak to him.”

“Wh-who?” stammered the man.

Anderson tossed him aside with a scowl and hurried his way into the hangar, ignoring the people that pursued with guns raised and demands for compliance. An alarm went off as he neared the back of the hangar, and he ignored that too.

“I need to speak to William Ruthner!” he bellowed. “Agnus Dei! Agnus Dei!” Hopefully there was another plant, because this one wasn’t going to be able to return after Anderson's display.

A man who perfectly fit the stereotype of an Englishman emerged from the back of the room, arms raised in the air. “Agnus Dei, Father!” he called, and his English accent was perfect. The Vatican always chose carefully when arranging plants. He continued in crisp Italian. “What do you-?”

Anderson didn’t give him the opportunity to finish. “Eurofighter Typhoon. I need to be taken to Vatican City.”

William Ruthner – undoubtedly not his real name – glanced around at the surrounding hostiles before gesturing Anderson closer, keeping his hands up in the air as he did so. As they were speaking a difference language, he expected the surrounding people thought this was some kind of confrontation, perhaps terrorist attack, and William was speaking him down. Which they would hopefully be convinced of until they got the jet running.

“It’s there,” said William, jerking his head toward a stunning jet sitting at the far end of the room. “How should we approach it?”

Anderson licked his lips. “Fast,” he said, hauling William toward him by an arm and catching a bullet in the side of his head as he did so. His vision swam and blood slid in thick rivulets down his temple and jaw, dripping off to soak into his clerical collar, turning it red. None of this prevented Anderson from hauling William through the hanger. The shock of a man surviving a bullet to the head bought them a few seconds of reprieve, but the assault resumed when William opened the fighter jet cockpit for him. Three bullets struck Anderson in the back and he ignored them just as he had the first, crawling into the jet behind William and throwing up his arms to prevent anything from harming his pilot.

They knocked people over on their way out. Nearly smashed an entering plane too, turning just in time to avoid the wings colliding. They didn’t even use the strip to take off; just streamed across what space was available and took off into the air, the bottom of the jet grazing the fence framing the perimeter of the air base and no doubt leaving jagged scratches on the paintwork.

Once they were at a high enough altitude to be off the air force radar, Anderson anxiously began going over the ritual to break the seals. He wasn’t worried about it not working; he was confident in his work, but getting the stake into Alucard would be a trial and the recovery period meant he’d probably be useless as an ally once freed of his seals. Geremia had all the relics and intended to use them recklessly, without deference for God’s designs, and Anderson was to face him with nothing but the nail and his will. He had every intention of winning, every confidence that God would enable him to- but how empty would the Vatican be by the end? How much history would be destroyed before he managed to bring down this madman? Would the Vatican survive at all?

Every minutes of the journey dragged. When the pilot finally informed him they were approaching their destination, Anderson was already prepared for his departure.

“I might have trouble landing in Vatican City.” William glanced over his shoulder. “I can land just outside with relative safety.”

“Find an appropriate airstrip,” said Anderson. “I won’t be accompanying you.”

William appeared troubled by this comment. “The… the ejection seat isn’t viable at this height and velocity. You’ll have to wait until I’m closer to the earth.”

“Don’t worry,” said Anderson, an attempt to reassure William. “I have means to get there.”

Means that weren’t as simple as his remark suggested, but there was no other way to reach the Vatican in a timely manner. He was just going to have to be very precise.

He closed his fingers tight around the bible, clutching it to his chest, and willed himself to reappear somewhere in the vicinity of Vatican City.

He ended up approximately two hundred and fifty feet above his desired destination, air whistling in his ears at a deafening volume and cold slamming into him from all sides, sending a chill through muscle and viscera and crawling up his very bone marrow. The violent assault prevented him from opening his eyes long enough to look down, which was perhaps a good thing, as he might not have been able to resist the temptation to watch the earth rise up to meet him if he'd had them open. However, it did mean that he was hurtling in the dark, completely unaware of how close to the earth he was, how close he was to shattering every bone in his body.

The bible had a ten second recharge. The wind was so loud he could barely hear himself counting them down in his own head. He held onto his bible like the lifeline it was, fingers white with tension. Over the din of the wind, a faint scream and the sound of a roaring fire reached him like a whisper through a tube. And then the scripture encased him again.

The cold was driven away in an instant by a powerful wave of heat. He snapped his eyes open to the decimated entrance to St. Peter's Basilica, taking in with a sense of numb horror the charred and crumbling travertine stone walls, intricate designs eaten away by the flames. He turned away from the sight not because of the intense heat, but because of the distress of seeing such a beautiful, religiously significant structure reduced to ash. They could rebuild, emulate what had been, but it wouldn’t be the same. Geremia had successfully deprived his people of one of their most beloved monuments.

He needed to find Alucard. There was so much more the Vatican could lose.

He replaced the bible with blades and hurtled away from the scene and into the ocean of thralls forming a barrier around Vatican City. His first encounter with Alucard’s mass of souls hadn’t prepared him for just how many there were. Thousands upon thousands as far as the eye could see, a truly impenetrable blockade, because even the most talented of Iscariot soldiers wouldn’t have been able to reach the end of the crowd before fatigue started to set in. 

It wasn’t hard to locate Alucard among the masses of thralls on the sole basis of him being in such a conspicuous form for this century. The paintings didn’t do Vlad the Impaler justice. He stood out tall among the crowd, his face narrow and regal, his hair windswept and his armour gleaming under the setting sun. A sword hung down by his thigh, long and impeccably made.

Anderson was going to have to use considerable force to penetrate the chain mail, an inconvenience he really could have done without. He cursed under his breath and threw bayonets into hand, willing his bible to deposit him just above Alucard, seeking to strike him before he could react. Alucard must have heard the flutter of pages, because he twisted just in time to evade a devastating wound, stumbling back into the surrounding thralls before hurtling at Anderson with his sword drawn. Metal sung as their blades collided. Anderson gripped his weapon with such force that it was a miracle the handle didn’t crumble.

Just like last time, the fight lacked any of its traditional passion, any enjoyment. It was perfunctory. Fighting because they had to, not because they had any desire to. Even as Anderson was made to push himself to his limits and beyond, he felt nothing for his opponent but disdain.

“O Father in heaven, gracious God, source of life and health and mercy,” he began in strained Latin, taking a breath every other word. “I say this prayer out of pure love for You with every beat of my heart and with every breath I take. I ask you, with modesty for my position as your faithful servant, to breathe into this lost soul and enable me to free him of the fiendish whims of the wicked one. Allow me to sever which uses him for wanton destruction and impiety.”

Alucard reacted to his words by trying to slam his blade through the underside of Anderson’s jaw. Anderson evaded it and used the attack to draw closer, trying to get in reach of Alucard’s chest. There was one convenience to Alucard being in this form: he favoured close-quarters combat, which meant he was practically handing Anderson opportunities to stab him. With some persistence, Anderson was eventually able to create a tether by slamming a bayonet into Alucard at an angle and pushing the man bodily back, trying to box him in against his familiars.

“Lord have mercy. Christ have mercy. Lord have mercy. Christ have mercy.” He twisted his blade within Alucard, forcing their bodies close. “With my right hand I raise the tool of deliverance and may God, our Lord and Saviour, imbue it with the strength to work. Amen!“

He slammed the stake down through cloth, chain mail and bone, eliciting a shout from Alucard and sending sticky, oily blood spurting onto his hand. He’d had just an inch or two to go when he was abruptly hauled back by the hoard of thralls behind him, pulled too far back to finish the work he’d started. Before his horror-struck eyes, Alucard tore the stake from his chest and threw it aside, rendering it lost among the sea of undead.

“No!” he snarled, slashing wildly at the thralls with the one arm that hadn’t been ensnared by a lumbering beast of a thrall.

He hauled himself with such strength in the direction the stake had been thrown that the thralls ensnaring him stumbled along behind him. He didn’t get far, however, before Alucard had fisted a hand around his throat and hauled him up into the air, using his other hand to catch Anderson’s wrist and shake his weapon free of his hand. The pressure on the cartilage of his throat cut off his breathing entirely, ensured he couldn’t so much as whimper as he was violently asphyxiated. Within seconds his head was swimming and his vision rapidly turning black around the edges. Drool gathered at the corner of his mouth, slid down the side, and God, he was damned hard to kill, but he was sure Alucard would find a way once the lack of oxygen cut off his ability to fight back. 

He struggled. He kicked his legs, twisted his body as best he could while suspended, even tried gnashing his teeth at Alucard’s wrist, but he was completely unable to free himself from Alucard. The thralls were not so moored, so he was just able to throw them back far enough to free his hand and fumble for a weapon. The dark of unconsciousness rapidly closed in on him as he tore the nail out of his coat. He had to use it. The stake was gone. He had to use the nail. It was the best chance he had of saving the Vatican before it was burnt to the ground. He’d already wasted too much time with this fight. He needed to move on and confront Geremia.

The casing shattered in his grip. The metal he closed his fingers around was rusted and rough and radiated an unnatural warmth. He jerked his hand up and took aim-

 _The souls of the dead will find peace, but you’ll become_ _nothing –_

_please-_

And found himself slamming it through the chain mail and into Alucard’s chest instead.

There was no time to think about what had compelled this decision. Alucard crumpled like wet tissue paper, releasing Anderson and sending him slamming into the cement. He stuttered back and spidered his fingers over the protruding nail, his mouth open, gaping with a silent scream, and a tremor rocking him from head to toe.

Anderson had never seen the vampire in genuine pain before, but it was unmistakable, and it was vivid.

Surrounding them, the familiars were wailing and clawing at themselves as the flickering shadows transformed into vicious flames. The scent of burnt flesh filled the air.

“Lord have mercy,” Anderson breathed, speaking fast and feverish. “Christ have mercy.”

Alucard thudded to his knees. He was trying and failing to tear out the nail, his fingers steaming and blackening each time he made an attempt. If not for the shock, he suspected Alucard would have been wailing just like his familiars.

Geremia was no longer at the helm, that much could be said. A good thing, but Alucard was in absolute agony and Anderson didn’t hate the man nearly enough – didn’t hate him at all, he thought absently – to want to see him in such straits. He reached for the hand that was closed over the base of the nail and pushed it aside, moving his fingers over the item instead and repeating his prayer under his breath. He had intended to attempt a removal, but the moment his fingers brushed over the now searing-hot metal of the nail, it disintegrated, leaving behind nothing but vapours and a shuddering Alucard.

A holy relic destroyed in an instant to liberate a vampire, and miraculously, it hadn't killed him. God certainly did work in mysterious ways.

Alucard started to topple forward and Anderson caught him by the shoulders, manoeuvring Alucard to lean against his side. His shaking had reduced to a periodic tremble. Anderson folded an arm over his back and slid his hand beneath Alucard’s chin, tilting it up. His eyes were open, but vague, and his skin was even paler than usual, a sickly alabaster. There was no hope he’d be able to help deal with Geremia.

“I need to go,” he told Alucard, who looked blearily up at him.

“Just…” Alucard planted his hands firmly on the ground and wobbled onto his knees. “Give me a moment and I can-“

“We don’t have a moment.” Gently dislodging Alucard, Anderson stood. Great pillars of smoke wafted from Vatican City. “You’re a worthy opponent, Alucard. We'll fight again."

Alucard arched his eyebrows at him. “Haven’t lost hope yet?”

“I can't afford to lose hope,” said Anderson simply, turning to approach the Vatican.

The smoke from the burning St. Peter's Basilica billowed into him as he headed for the entrance. He ignored the fire; a trifle for a regenerator, and pushed through the Basilica and toward the Civil Administration Building. That looked to be where Geremia was now, based on the rubble he could just make out through the smoke. When he emerged into the city, there was little activity other than the destruction being wrought by Geremia. There were corpses littering the ground, some burnt, others torn asunder with unnaturally cauterised wounds, but very few actual living people. Maxwell had probably gathered the survivors and sent them to the opposite side of the city.

He drew bayonets as he trudged past the bodies. Numerous corpses looked to be Geremia's own men, and one was clearly the Hellsing butler, surrounded by wires that shimmered under the flames, but a few faces he recognised as Iscariot soldiers and it brought a tightness to his jaw. How many had fallen at this mad man’s hand? He’d trained them all himself, knew them all personally to some degree, and that they died to a turncoat infuriated him. There was grief there, beneath it all, but he was so practised at pushing that down that it remained in the recesses of his mind.

His molars grit as he advanced on the source of the destruction. While he couldn’t make this death slow, he’d at least make it painful.

The Administrator building had been reduced to steaming rubble. It was unlikely the chapel attached had survived, which had Anderson’s stomach clenching. He drew in a heavy breath and pressed on into the billowing smoke rising from the ashes of the Vatican’s pride. He could just make out a shadow through it, see a flash of orange among some of the carnage.

“Geremia!” he snarled.

The figure paused, then turned.

“Father Anderson,” said Geremia, his voice sounding hoarse and gargling.

Anderson found out why when he finally broke through the smoke and laid eyes upon what Geremia had reduced himself to. There were a multitude of bright red veins erupting from his side and crawling up his body, encasing one arm and coiling around his eyes. A parody of wings spread out from his back, constructed of the very same veins that stretched up his body. They were clearly sourced from Geremia himself rather than a relic, because the extraction of them had turned Geremia emancipated and pale, almost skeletal, his skin clinging sickly to his bones. As Anderson got closer, he could see the veins undulating and smell the copper of Geremia's blood.

There was a dullness to Geremia’s gaze when he turned his eyes on Anderson. He wasn’t all there. The relics he was wielding – the Lance of Longinus in one hand, the true cross burned into his chest – had broken something in him.

This, Anderson realised, was what he could have become. A pitiful, broken creature; a monster, and maybe he would have taken that route had Alucard not interjected when he did, not made his displeasure known.

“You destroyed yourself,” said Anderson, falling into a defensive stance.

“Perhaps,” said Geremia, his twisted wings fluttering. He set the end of the lance on the ground and sparks flew from beneath it. “I knew… I knew there would be a sacrifice.”

“Was it worth it?”

Geremia twisted his pale lips. “To save the world? To enact God's will? Of course.”

“Save the world,” said Anderson with a snort. “By destroying institutions you don’t agree with? There’s over a billion Catholic’s in the world. Good luck with that.” He gave his bayonets a twirl, looking Geremia over for a means to end this fast. His heart had been rendered bulbous by the storm of veins and was now partially exposed. Perhaps that would be a route to victory. Destroying the heart killed most other creatures.

“I don’t need to kill everyone following the false religion,” said Geremia, raising his weapon. “Just those on top, and the others will fall in line in time.”

Geremia slammed the end of the lance into the ground and fire surged toward Anderson like a bolt. An average man wouldn’t have been able to avoid it. Anderson, with his enhanced senses, managed to get away with little more than a singe on his coat tails. He flung a barrage of bayonets at Geremia in hopes of distracting him long enough to get in close, but none of them struck home. With a wave of the lance, they’d all been turned to ash.

The bolts of fire continued to come as he circled Geremia, looking for an opening. Structures were shattered behind him and he didn’t dare look, didn’t want to see what destruction was being done to the already mangled Vatican City. He remained focused on Geremia. Threw bayonet after bayonet, some grazing past Geremia, others being burnt before they could make contact. None came close to inflicting any grievous harm or even distracting him long enough for Anderson to surge in. 

It became clear after a few minutes of this dance that he wasn’t going to be able to advance without sacrifice. Nothing new to Anderson, though this would undoubtedly be a far more painful sacrifice than those that had been required to defeat paltry opponents. He crossed six bayonets to form a shield and barrelled forward, grunting as the first burst of fire shattered two of the bayonets, and letting out a low, pained hiss at the next attack, which shattered a further three blades and sent fire licking into him. It seared a hole straight through his clothes, skin and muscle like they were tissue paper. If he got hit head on with those flames, he wasn’t sure he’d be able to regenerate. The cauterisation would certainly make it difficult even if he could. As it was, his wounds were still burning when he managed to slam a bayonet into the man’s chest, who moved just in time to avoid getting it in the heart.

Up close, the man looked even more monstrous, his face gaunt and eyes sockets hollowed, his teeth too white and his lips too thin to cover them, his heart visibly beating and the crawl of veins pulsing with it. It was enough to make Anderson’s stomach turn. He grit his teeth and pressed closer, ignoring the overwhelming scent of copper and death and heaving the bayonet to the side with both hands.

“No!” the beast snarled, striking Anderson so hard in the head with a fist that his vision flashed white and he staggered back.

The bayonet was hauled out and away before he could recover his grip and he shouted in frustration, barrelling in again. This time, Geremia was prepared. He brought the lance down hard over Anderson’s upper arm, and the pain was so immense, so all-consuming that it took Anderson a good moment to register that his arm had been severed. He fell onto his knees, shaking fingers rising to the cauterised stump and pain rendering his vision blurry. 

He wasn’t on his knees long. Geremia hauled him up by the collar of his clergy jacket and set the tip of the lance against his throat. It didn’t feel like metal. It felt unnaturally slimy, so at odds with its appearance. The red crawling up the shaft of the lance reached for Anderson and he wasn’t able to raise his arm fast enough to prevent it from curling around his neck. The tendrils descended on him like grape vines into a fence, curling around his arm and chest and legs, securing him in place.

“All that raw power they gave you,” said Geremia in a hiss. “And it’s useless.”

The veins crawled past his lips and he bit down, gagging as blood burst under his teeth. He couldn’t even spit it out as further veins were quick to invade his mouth. A death at the hands of Geremia's power promised to be an agonising one. He struggled with all his might, kicked his legs, strained his arms, gnashed his teeth, but those rope-like veins were so numerous that they were impossible to repel.

Geremia leaned so close that Anderson could smell his putrid, unnatural breath. “Don’t think for a moment you don’t deserve this messy end.”

Anderson couldn’t get out more than a grunt. The oral intrusion was making him gag and his gut churn, was making bile rise into his throat and tears spring to the corners of his eyes. At every stage of his life, no matter how dire, he’d always held onto hope. But that was leaving him now, and as Geremia loomed over him, invaded him, the beginnings of fear and helplessness started to set in.

He squirmed like a caught rat in the man’s grip, each hot breath from Geremia rolling over his face. If his mouth hadn’t been so full, he probably would have screamed.

This couldn’t be happening. This couldn’t be how it ended. This couldn't be happening to him.

“God of peace, you offer eternal healing to those who believe in you,” recited Geremia with a mocking stretch of his lips. “You have refreshed your servant Anderson with food and drink from heaven: lead him safely into the kingdom of-“

The terrible assault abruptly ended as Geremia lurched forward. He dropped Anderson to the ground, stumbling into him and almost falling over. Anderson saw the hunched, haggard form of Alucard standing behind Geremia and acted immediately: he slammed his remaining hand hard into Geremia's chest, over his heart, while Alucard launched himself into Geremia’s back. The man howled in frustration and made to thrust the end of the lance into Anderson. It was only Alucard’s quick acting that prevented the attack from striking. Shadows curled tight around Geremia’s arms and hauled him backwards, giving Anderson greater access to the pulsing bulge of his heart.

Pain lanced up his arm as he fisted his fingers around Geremia’s heart, tearing it out with such force that there wasn’t any time for the veins to block the trajectory of his arm. He crushed it between his fingers, blood and viscera spilling onto the ground while Geremia’s howling transitioned into a shout of pain.

It didn’t kill him. The man continued to fight, and the proximity meant Alucard wasn’t able to get out of the way when he slammed the blunt end of the lance into him- the blunt end being the only reason he lived through it. He gave a hoarse shout and released his hold of Geremia, and Anderson realised belatedly that the True Cross must have been keeping him alive. He was persisting on holy power alone.

Anderson curled his fingers around the edges of the cross and tugged as hard as his exhausted body would let him, pressing his heels into the ground to give him that little bit more force. It wouldn’t dislodge. Geremia caught him about the throat and crushed the vulnerable cartilage. 

“Alucard,” he squeezed out.

He must have been functioning on a slither of strength, but Alucard still managed to slam his hand through Geremia’s back and push the cross out of him. The suddenness of the attack had Geremia faltering, then twisting his weapon within Alucard, who cried out in agony yet didn’t relax his grip. Alucard pushed; Anderson pulled, and the hot metal started to cool the further out of Geremia it got. The gentle thrum running through it faded as well, like a dying heartbeat.

He couldn’t breathe. Black crawled at the edges of his eyes. He gave one last, desperate haul of his body, putting all the strength remaining in his body behind it, and finally tore the cross free. A shudder ran through Geremia and he stumbled forward with his arm outstretched, blindly seeking Anderson. The lance slipped out of his hand before he collapsed to the ground at Anderson’s feet, his body flaking and burning away until there was nothing left of him but the tattered cloth of his clergy wear.

Anderson looked at Alucard, took one step toward him, and fell as well, landing hard on his knees among the rubble and filth. There was nothing left in him, not even the strength to lift his head. He was beyond depleted. The sheer stubbornness that had carried him to this point had faded away along with the monster that had generated it.

He was joined a moment by Alucard, who looked unnaturally fatigued as he brought their foreheads together and gave a weak smile.

"How the hell'd you...?" Anderson didn't finish the question, too tired to fill in the rest.

"Conveniently, there are many virgins here," said Alucard, smiling wryly.

Anderson gave a weak scoff. "Enough for you to recover them?" After too long a pause, he clarified: "The relics, I mean."

“Not right now,” said Alucard quietly. “We need to rest first."

“But the…” Anderson wobbled from side to side. “We need to retrieve them. We can't let them... can't risk...” Try as he might, he couldn't find enough strength to finish. His consciousness was fading.

Alucard’s cool fingers stroked along his nape. “If he didn’t bring them with him, they’ve not yet unlocked their power. You need to recover your strength for the task ahead.” He guided Anderson closer, folding an arm over his shoulders. His solid presence was comforting and Anderson sank into it, his eyelids drooping. “Let go, Anderson,” Alucard murmured. “I have you. You can let go.”

“You have me,” said Anderson tiredly. “Alright. Alright.”

He closed his eyes and let the dark overtake him.

* * *

It took the Vatican laboratory a full day to recover his arm, and it was a further three hours of work before sensation returned to the limb. The arm ached faintly after, which suggested there was still a little more healing to go, but Anderson was out of the Vatican laboratory the moment he’d been given a relatively clean bill of health and practically running the distance between the laboratory and Maxwell’s office. On his way past the Civil Admiration building, he saw people gathering rubble and loading it into wheelbarrows and bagged bodies lined side-by-side a few feet from where the cleaning was taking place. The sight made his jaw clench. 

“Father!”

He was jarred out of his thoughts by a lithe body slamming into him. Yumie wrapped her arms tight around his shoulders, squeezing him with a strength one wouldn’t think such a small woman could possess, and he returned the hug just as fiercely, burying his face in her hair.

“Yumie,” he said, with audible relief. “I’m glad to see you in good health.”

“And you, father,” said Yumie, her voice trembling. She eased her grip on him and looked him in the face, her wide eyes glassy and bright. “I- I wanted to wait in the laboratory for you, but there’s so much cleaning up to do. That bastard, he…” Her bottom lip trembled. “I’m glad you’re okay. You, Heinkel and Maxwell are still here, and I'm glad for that.”

“Heinkel’s in good health?” Knowing Heinkel, she was probably leading the clean up efforts. He looked again to the mess of the Administration building and the pain was duller this time. “Tell her I’m awake,” he said. “I imagine she’ll want to speak to me later.”

“She tried to get into the labs earlier to do just that,” said Yumie with a warm smile. “She pokes fun at me for being emotional, but I know she’ll be fighting the urge to cry the moment she sets eyes on you.”

“Can’t say I’m not on the precipice myself,” admitted Anderson.

Her eyes wandered over to the body bags, fixing on them briefly before her attention returned to Anderson. “Like you always say, Father: we’ll see them again in Limbo.”

He took a deep breath and nodded. “Thank you,” he said, pressing a kiss into Yumie’s hair, as he had often done when she’d been a child. “I have to speak to Maxwell. This isn’t over."

"I know," said Yumie solemnly. "It won't be over for a long time, even after we've found them all."

Anderson let out a long exhale at the truth in her remark. "Take care of yourself while I’m gone, and take care of Heinkel.”

“I will, Father.”

He gave her shoulders a warm squeeze before pressing past to hurry the rest of the way to the Iscariot Administration building. The halls were unnaturally quiet. Most everyone must have been sent out to contribute to the clean-up efforts, because the only other people present were a few guards stationed at Maxwell’s door. Harried though he was, Anderson still took the time to give them a polite nod of greeting before pushing his way inside.

The peculiar sight of Maxwell and Integra deep in discussion over a map spread on Maxwell’s desk was the first thing Anderson was greeted with, followed by the equally as peculiar sight of Alucard lounging nearby with his legs propped up on a vacant chair. Upon seeing Anderson, Alucard beamed at him, raising a bare-gloved hand in greeting. 

The first thought to spring into his head was that it was _good_ to see Alucard. To know he was alright, still his inappropriately exuberant self. Maybe a little worn around the edges, if the lines under his eyes was anything to go by, but in good health. Whole and happy. How strange it was to be relieved to see his enemy well.

“You’re awake!” Maxwell sprang to his full height and urged Anderson closer with a wave of his hands. “About time. We were about to send the vampire off on his own.”

Anderson glanced at Alucard, who was still beaming, and he tried to ignore how his heart beat that little bit faster at the implications of ‘on his own’. He stepped up to Maxwell’s desk. “Seems like I missed a lot while unconscious.”

“We don’t have time to bring you up to speed here,” said Integra, turning away from Maxwell to start gathering papers into a pile. Intel on the mission, presumably. “Iscariot tracked down one of Geremia’s holds some hours ago. The men sent to observe the area went quiet thirty minutes ago.”

“But,” said Maxwell. “I expect you and the vampire-“

“Alucard,” piqued up Alucard.

Maxwell cast him a dry look. “Cooperating with Hellsing is strange enough without trying to make me refer to you like a _person_ , but fine, Alucard.” He cleared his throat. “We’ve already recovered the most powerful of the relics, and Geremia only wielded two, so I doubt they’ve been able to unlock the full potential of the rest.”

“They must have been able to unlock some of that power if we’ve not heard back from your men,” said Integra.

“Then let’s not waste any more time.”

Maxwell grabbed a manilla envelope and stuffed the papers into it, extending Anderson the messily compiled information. Anderson accepted it, though he didn’t expect to read more than the summary. This was a straightforward task.

“If you’re here, I assume you’re well enough to go on this mission,” said Maxwell, his eyes jumping to Anderson’s arm.

Anderson demonstrated its recovery with a good squeeze of his fist and a bulge of his bicep. “You assume correct. The doctors gave me a clean bill of health.” Well, almost one. Close enough that he didn’t feel the need to specify the ‘almost’.

“Good.” Maxwell flapped his hands toward the exit. “Go. Both of you. There’s already a jet waiting for you; Renal-” A beat, a breath, and then he corrected himself: “Bernard will be waiting to drive you there.”

"Renaldo too?" asked Anderson, his voice uncharacteristically quiet.

Maxwell gave a solemn nod.

One more name among the fallen, but Renaldo had died protecting the Vatican, and for all the pain Anderson felt at his passing and all the fury at who had been the cause, he took comfort in the fact it was the sort of death he would have taken pride in. Iscariot's weren’t the ‘die quietly in one’s bed’ kind of people; it was part of why they were in Iscariot in the first place. All his men held that sentiment, and it eased the weight of grief to know they had died for their brethren, for the pope, to protect Catholicism, and that was how they’d wanted to die. How Anderson wanted to die one day too.

He slipped the manilla envelope into his coat and stepped out. Alucard followed him so close that his feet brushed Anderson’s heels. Anderson didn’t confront him on the proximity. The man had given him a blowjob; it was too little too late to start feigning discomfort now.

They were accosted by Bernard the moment they stepped outside and were ushered into the back of a vehicle. The trip to the strip took all of a few minutes, or at least felt that way with how fast their car went hurtling through Italy, and Bernard practically pushed them up the boarding steps and into the cabin once they'd arrived. The plane was readying to take off before they’d even managed to find a seat. As there were only four, they could have sat apart from each other, but Alucard selected the chair directly across from Anderson, of course.

“Alucard,” said Anderson, leaning back in his chair. “Say what’s on your mind.”

“You wish to hear me speak?” said Alucard, amused. “Are you sure?”

“I've passed the point of denial. I know you have something to say to me, so say it.”

Alucard tipped his head to the side. “You’re presuming quite a bit here, Anderson.”

“Don’t tease me,” said Anderson, and it sounded much more _needy_ than he’d intended it to. Alucard had to take the first step in solidifying- whatever this was. Anderson needed him to. And Alucard must have realised this, because he was much more genuine when he spoke again.

“Very well.” Alucard reached forward to cup a hand around the back of Anderson’s neck, his thumb stroking along the fine hairs there. “You have me, Anderson. You have my fascination, my admiration, my fondness, and you have as much love as a being like me is capable of.”

Anderson swallowed thickly. What fear those words brought, and what pleasure as well.

“Is that what you wanted to hear?” asked Alucard, wearing an uncharacteristically gentle smile.

“Yes,” rasped Anderson.

Alucard drew him even closer, his lips gliding along his cheek and down to the curve of his ear. “I’d like to hear something from you as well.”

Anderson slowly brought one of his hands to Alucard’s chest, letting his fingers get lost in the folds of his duster. Alucard's cool body temperature had become so familiar and so comfortable over the course of their time together.

“What?” he asked.

“Do I still have you, Anderson?”

“Yes,” said Anderson immediately, pressing his fingers against the hollows of Alucard’s ribs, like he could reach inside and touch his atrophied heart.

Everything was going to be fine. He felt that truly and wholly. They were going to recover the relics, return home, and continue fighting each other like they always had, with some affection interspersed in-between, and all the fear that accompanied having such feelings for a vampire – for his greatest enemy - didn't lessen the peace that thought brought. For the first time, he felt this fit _somewhere_ into God's plan for him.

“You have me, Alucard.”


End file.
